


Like a Moth to Light (Like a Beast to Bait)

by cedarbranch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gerard Keay is a Monsterfucker, Human/Monster Romance, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Possessive Behavior, Trans Gerard Keay, Vaguely Opposed Enemies to Lovers, in which fuckhands mcmike lives up to his name, in which the author dissects the meaning of humanity, michael might not be a human but goddamn thats not stopping gerry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: Gerry watches Michael closely. “You haven’t killed me yet. But you keep coming back. So… why?” Then, the real question: “Is this just your fucked up way of trying to claim me for the Spiral? Because I’m pretty sure the Eye’s already called dibs.”Michael giggles. “Oh no,” he says. “The Eye wants you, yes, but not the way I do.”
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 128
Kudos: 615





	Like a Moth to Light (Like a Beast to Bait)

**Author's Note:**

> WOW i had so much fun writing this. monsterfucker rights. title is from [fear & delight](https://youtu.be/TqYRTSQ3Ogk) by the correspondents, one of my fave songs to think about gerrymichael to
> 
> (also this was written before mag167 so don't look too hard at emma's appearances, and insert obligatory disclaimer abt gerry and michael being the same age blah blah. anyway pls enjoy!)

The house stands ancient and withered at the end of the road, wind rushing hollow through the gaps in its wooden beams. The windows have all been shattered. Broken glass litters the scraggly grass of the yard, along with scraps of paint that have peeled away from the walls. 

Gerry wrinkles his nose, leaning out the window of the car. “This feels spooky,” he says.

“Quite,” Gertrude says from the passenger’s seat.

“No, I mean, like, silly spooky. Halloween-type spooky. This place looks like every stereotypical haunted house in the books, Gertrude. Are you sure it’s that bad?”

“If you think it’s safe, you’re more than welcome to go without one of these,” Gertrude says dryly, holding up a can of insect killer. “More for me.”

“Ha ha,” Gerry deadpans, taking one from her. “It just feels like it’s compensating for something, don’t you think?”

“I won’t comment on the Corruption’s choice of houses,” says Gertrude, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “We’re here to seal it off, nothing more. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Gerry. He adjusts his own gloves and pulls a medical mask from his pocket, adjusting it over his face. It might be excessive, but one can never be too careful with the Corruption, even if this house doesn’t seem too threatening.

They’ve been watching the house on Cedar Street for a while now. There’ve been a few accounts of people breaking in, urban explorers or just teenagers looking for a good spook, who ended up dying of horrible diseases or mysteriously vanishing. The couple who lives down the street has been complaining about a roach infestation that won’t go away, even after two visits from the exterminators. It’s textbook Corruption stuff, and it seems to be getting stronger. 

Ideally, they could blow it to pieces, but explosives are risky when it comes to this particular power—sending bits of the house flying everywhere might just contaminate the entire area. So they’re aiming for containment instead. Hopefully, sealing off all the exits will keep it subdued long enough for them to think of a better strategy. 

Gerry grabs one of the toolboxes from the back seat and gets out of the car. Gertrude takes the other, and they approach the house together. She stays to cover the front, while Gerry splits off to head around the back.

The first step is the windows. Gerry covers them with a few layers of plastic, tapes those into place, then carefully boards over them. He keeps a can of bug spray nearby at all times. He’s just finished hammering the last piece of wood into place when a rustling noise comes from inside.

He freezes. The noise continues, growing louder: it’s a shifting, wet crawling sound, like something slimy being stirred. He drops his hammer and backs away. “Gertrude!” he yells. 

At the sound of his voice, something slams against the window. The boards shudder, but hold in place. Gerry grabs his biggest aerosol cans of bug spray and disinfectant and holds them both at the ready. The squirming sound continues from behind the window, and every few seconds something smacks into it, but it stays shut.

After a few minutes, it recedes, and there is quiet. 

“Gertrude?” Gerry calls again, glancing over to the corner of the house. 

There’s another wet slam, louder than before. Gerry jumps. The back door is shaking on its hinges. Fuck, _fuck_ , he hadn’t gotten there yet, it’s going to— 

Bugs pour from the cracks around the door. A wave of black wriggling things sweeps across the lawn, piling over itself in a scuttling mass. Gerry lets out a strangled cry and sprays both cans at it. It darts back from the plume of disinfectants. Gerry keeps spraying, holding down the trigger as hard as he can. The insects swerve away, but they don’t retreat. 

They just keep coming. He turns back and forth, fighting to keep them at bay, but the frothing mass of filth extends around him in a circle, and he’s trapped. Fuck. What a stupid way to go. Cockroaches skitter up to his feet. He stamps them into the ground. There’s too many, he can’t keep this up— 

“Hold your breath!” Gertrude shouts. 

There’s a hiss and a blast of white. Gerry drops the cans and covers his face. He’s enveloped in a stream of fog that coats his clothes and thickens in the air. The bugs hiss and click; it sounds almost like a faint screech as they stiffen in place. 

Gertrude keeps spraying even as they’ve stopped moving. “Come on!” she says. Gerry jumps over the circle of white-covered bugs. Once he’s out of range, he gasps for breath, coughing into his arm. His head swims. 

“What the hell is that?” he wheezes. He braces his hands against his knees to keep from falling over. The ground shifts before his eyes; his brain is a dizzy, oxygen-deprived mess.

“Carbon dioxide,” Gertrude says, her voice clipped. “I had hoped we wouldn’t need it at this stage.”

“Well, you thought bloody wrong, didn’t you?” Gerry snaps. He inhales fresh air into his lungs, and his head begins to clear. “Why didn’t we use that to begin with?”

“You can hardly seal a door with carbon dioxide,” says Gertrude. 

“That’s not what I—oh, for God’s sake. Fine.” Gerry wipes at his coat sleeves. He really fucking hopes this stuff washes out. “Do you have another?” 

“Yes, there should be more in the car.”

“Good.” Gerry goes and retrieves one from the backseat. He hurries back, just in case another wave of bugs has come to Gertrude, but she seems to have scared them off. “Did you get the front all done?” he asks. She nods. “Good. We need to finish the back door, then.”

For a moment, she almost looks as if she’ll object—any sane person would leave at this point, especially given the amount of carbon dioxide Gerry’s probably just inhaled—but she just nods again, and they go to work. No insects rush out at them this time, and they’re able to board over the door and seal all the cracks shut with rubber construction paste. 

“There we are,” says Gertrude. “Now. This has been a wholly unpleasant afternoon—I say we head back to the archives.”

“Yeah,” Gerry agrees, wiping his hands on his jeans. He goes to grab the toolbox from closer to the house, but as he does, his eyes catch on a patch of yellow.

There’s another door on the side of the house. Gerry sighs. Just when he had thought they were finished. They’ll have to seal that one too, otherwise this whole project will have been useless. 

He scoops up the toolbox and walks over to it, examining the edges. It’s in much better condition than the other doors—the wood is solid, and the paint job could be brand new. The handle is clean and matte black. Gerry touches it. It’s not even rusted. 

For some reason, he wants to open it. That would be a stupid idea, he’s seen what’s inside the house—but maybe those were all the bugs it had to offer. Maybe it’s safe now. Even if it’s not, maybe he could get inside and kill the rest of them. They have another fire extinguisher. 

The door is so inviting, just sitting there. It _wants_ to be opened; it wants Gerry to finish this job once and for all. He can feel it in his gut. This is what he should do.

“Gerard!” Gertrude calls, sounding alarmed. “Gerard, wait—”

Gerry opens the door and steps over the threshold.

As soon as he’s through, it smacks shut. He grabs at the handle. It’s locked. “Gertrude!” he shouts. “I’m locked in!” 

There’s no response. 

Gerry turns, examining his surroundings for the first time. It looks nothing like what he would expect based on the outside of the house. The floor is covered in a carpet reminiscent of a bowling alley from the 70s, all shapes and squiggling lines, each color clashing harder than the one beside it. 

He’s not sure he’s inside the house at all. 

“Gertrude?” he asks again, but even as he says it, his heart sinks. Yeah, there’s no way she can hear him. He’d really like a break between near-death experiences. Ten minutes, even. 

He turns back to the door, and finds that it’s disappeared. Where his hand had formerly rested on the doorknob, he’s now touching nothing at all. Instead, the same long hallway stretches out before him. 

It seems like there’s nothing to do but pick a direction and walk… so he sits down against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Whatever flavor of death trap this is, he’s not going to waltz straight into it. If the world won’t give him a break, he’ll take one for himself, thanks.

He waits for what feels like forever before the place gets tired of him, and the wall behind him ceases to exist. He grabs the floor to stabilize himself, scowling. “Fine,” he says. “But for the record, I did _not_ sign up for this.”

Gerry walks down the corridor, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement. It’s difficult—it seems like _everything_ is moving, constant but subtle. The walls and the paintings adorning them swirl in slow circles, seemingly solid, but oozing into new shapes when Gerry turns his attention elsewhere. He takes care not to touch anything.

The most important question is what this place is. It’s clearly not part of the Corruption; it’s not nearly gross enough. It’s actually quite well-kept, if headache-inducing. Gerry mentally ticks through the potential alignments. It’s not the Flesh or the Slaughter, or any of the more physical ones. It’s not desolate enough for the Lonely, not cramped enough for the Buried. He lingers on the Vast for a moment—the hallways do seem to go on indefinitely—but that’s not right.

It’s a dead ringer for the Spiral.

No sooner has Gerry come to this conclusion than a flash of movement catches his eye. There’s something at the end of the hall. Gerry quickens his pace and turns a corner, but when he starts down the new pathway, there it is again, waiting for him. It’s decidedly inhuman, much too tall, with curly blonde hair that doesn’t sit quite right and hands that nearly scrape the floor. 

When it speaks, it sounds like it’s whispering directly into Gerry’s ear. “Looking for a way out already?” it asks. 

Gerry doesn’t answer it. He backs away and tries a new hall. He makes it down a few steps before he passes by a mirror, and a contorted figure shows up in the reflection beside him. “You’ve been in here quite a while,” it observes. “Do you even know how long it’s been?”

Gerry clenches his fists and doesn’t reply. 

“What would the Archivist say?” the thing asks, sounding as if it’s talking to itself. “Will she be worried?”

Gerry can’t respond. If he responds, he’s playing straight into its hands. Its… really fucked up, bony hands. Gerry shudders and turns back the way he came. He can’t remember half the twists and turns he’s made by now, but the creature never seems to lose track.

It appears right in front of him. He jumps.

“I don’t think she’ll be bothered,” it says. Gerry can hear its smile more than he can see it. Its face is blurred and inconsistent, changing places every time he blinks. “You know what I think, Assistant? I think you could die in here, and she wouldn’t mind at all.”

Gerry turns to run, but the hallways fold into themselves like dominoes. He slips, and there’s one jarring moment of suspense before he finds his footing again in a newly-reformed corridor. The thing is still standing in front of him, looking like a funhouse mirror’s halfhearted impression of a human being. 

“You don’t talk much,” it says, sounding disappointed. “In fact, you’re rather boring.”

It belatedly occurs to Gerry that it might be in his best interest to make this thing think he’s worth keeping alive.

“I can talk,” he says. “I just chose not to.”

“And why not?” the thing asks, grinning with far too many teeth. 

Gerry shrugs. “You’re just talking about my boss so far,” he says. “I don’t want to bash her behind her back. You can get fired for that kind of thing, you know.”

The thing cackles. Its laughter swarms through the hall, as piercing as the screech of microphone feedback. “As if she could fire you,” it gasps. “Oh, Assistant, that is hardly the fate you should be worried about!”

“What should I be worried about, then? You?”

“Yes,” it says. “Among a number of things.”

“Well, you don’t seem so bad,” says Gerry, even as his heart bangs against his ribs. “Look at you, giving me advice. And you didn’t even kill me right away. That makes you a lot more fun than most things I see in this job.”

The creature tilts its head—or, Gerry thinks it does. It’s hard to tell, with the constant aura of motion surrounding it already. It’s more of a curl than a tilt, anyway. “What kind of things do you usually see?” it asks.

“Oh, lots of stuff,” Gerry says, wracking his brains for anything he can say. As long as he keeps it listening, he can buy enough time to think of a way out. “Books that burn you alive, semi-immortal cultists that burn you alive, people that burn you alive. Lots of burning, usually.”

“I do not burn things,” says the creature. 

“Yeah. You’re one of the more creative ones,” says Gerry. 

The creature hums. “And you are one of the interesting ones,” it says. “You’re not as boring as I thought.” There’s a door beside it. Had it been there before? “Still, I do not think the Archivist would miss you,” the thing continues. “She is not suited to that sort of thing.” 

It opens the door. Outside is another hallway; a different one, painted a drab white, with brown wooden doors set into the side. Gerry knows that hallway. It’s in the archives. 

“Go on,” the thing says. “I’m sure she’s waiting.”

Gerry doesn’t question it. He darts through the door, and it swings shut behind him with an echoing creak. 

He rubs his eyes. This place certainly feels real. It doesn’t make his head hurt like the other halls had, and everything looks fixed in place. 

He starts down toward Gertrude’s office and knocks on her door. “Come in,” she calls. 

Gerry bangs the door open. Gertrude’s eyes widen—as shocked as she ever lets herself appear. “Gerard,” she says. “You're—”

“How long?” Gerry cuts her off. 

Gertrude sits back in her chair. “Three days,” she says. “I was starting to get worried.”

“What was that place?” Gerry asks. She has to know; she always does.

Gertrude purses her lips. “Take a seat,” she says. Gerry drops into the chair across from her desk and glares at her. “I assume you met the creature inside?” she asks. “Or saw it, at least?”

“Yes. What the hell was that thing?”

“It’s called the Distortion,” Gertrude says. “And I would advise you to stay far, far away from it."

“Oh no, but I’d said I’d meet it for tea on Tuesday,” Gerry replies, feigning disappointment. He scowls. “Fucking _obviously_ I’m going to stay away from it, Gertrude, Jesus.”

“Be serious,” Gertrude says sharply. “It’s unfortunate enough that you ended up in its corridors, but there’s always the chance it could come back. If its victims escape, it doesn’t tend to let them go free for long. Once you’ve been inside the hallways, it can always find you, no matter where you go.”

Gerry sits up. “What, even in the archives?” 

“Yes,” Gertrude snaps, “which is precisely why I wish you hadn’t opened that door.”

“I didn’t just walk in for the fun of it!”

Gertrude waves her hand. When she takes the time to breathe, she seems more disappointed than truly annoyed. “I know you didn’t mean to,” she says heavily. “It… wasn’t your fault. The Distortion is a manifestation of the Spiral; it distorts your perception of reality. But now that it knows you, you’re at risk, and that means the rest of us are, too. I’ll have to find a way to strengthen the protections on this place.”

“Maybe it won’t come back,” Gerry offers. “It let me go, after all.”

Gertrude pauses. “It what?”

“It let me go,” Gerry says. “It… said you were probably waiting for me, and it made a new door, and I left.”

Something unreadable crosses Gertrude’s face. “That’s extremely uncharacteristic of it,” she says. “Did it say anything else?”

“Just some stuff about you,” Gerry says. “It doesn’t seem to like you much. It might like me, though. It said I was interesting.”

“That’s not a good thing,” says Gertrude.

Gerry sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.”

***

It’s harder to find information on the Distortion than Gerry expects. He sifts through statements about the Spiral, about doors, about anything that could possibly be related, but only a handful of them actually seem to deal with the same being, and even those don’t seem exactly right. The descriptions of its appearance are all wrong. 

Still, it gives Gerry something to go on. One of the statements is from a man who entered a mirror maze in a haunted house, only to find himself wandering a terrifying landscape that stretched far beyond the borders of any real house. As he lost himself, something pale and twisted stalked after him. It never stopped laughing.

It’s nice to have found a statement that seems to contain a concrete reference to the Distortion, but it still doesn’t tell Gerry much _about_ the thing. It talks about its endless hallways, the way it speaks in riddles, the way its smile hurts to look at. Gerry already knows all that. He doesn’t need to read a statement to know that a creature of the Spiral can make you doubt your own sanity.

Gerry pauses. That’s actually an interesting point—this man seems to have escaped with his mind intact, but what about the ones who didn’t?

Gerry files the statement away and goes down the stairs to the archives. He walks past his usual aisles, the treasure trove of statements dealing with the Desolation, the Slaughter, all the most destructive Entities. He keeps walking until he hits the section marked _Discredited_.

Statements made by those with serious mental illnesses often end up here. Whether schizophrenia or psychosis, if there’s legitimate reason to doubt the reality of what someone has seen, it’s usually sent straight to the discredited section and never looked at again. Gerry’s almost never had to dig through these files—and it’s a blessing. Most of the archives are impressively disorganized, but the discredited section takes the cake.

Gerry’s got a lot of work ahead of him. 

Once he starts sifting through the files, though, he finds his hunch to be correct. A lot of people who run across the Spiral end up misdiagnosed with schizophrenia when they try to talk about what they’ve seen. Unfortunately, the Institute doesn’t really have a way of sorting out the Entity-related diagnoses from the legitimate ones, and there’s a shocking number of what appear to be real statements lumped in with the disproven ones. 

Their descriptions of the Distortion all line up, and they bring in some new details, too: apparently, the thing also goes by Michael. Gerry snorts a little at that. An awfully mundane name for something so vibrantly malicious. 

He should really tell Gertrude about all these misfiled statements—she purposefully generates half the chaos in the archives, but if she doesn’t know about these, she might have something to say about it. Maybe she could get them filed properly. It’d make future research more convenient for sure.

In the meantime, Gerry collects everything of worth into a new folder and sticks it into his jacket. He can examine it more closely later, but he’s already gathered the key theme: Gerry does not want to fuck with the Distortion. 

Unfortunately, it might have already decided to fuck with him.

***

There’s one statement-giver who stands out from the rest. 

Her name is Camille Baxter. Out of all the people who’ve come across the Distortion, she’s the only one who Gerry’s been able to track down—the only one who’s still alive, that is. The others have all vanished mysteriously at some point after giving their statements. Some last years before their fate catches up with them, but they all go, in the end. 

Gerry doesn’t know why the Distortion hasn’t come for Camille yet, but he knows he has to get to her before it does. 

She works as a teacher at a primary school in Sutton. Gerry arrives just as the students are let out. In the flood of children and parents coming to pick them up, it’s easy to slip through the crowd. The classrooms for each year are clustered together, and when he finds the hall for third-year students, the very first door is marked with the name _Baxter_. There are still a few kids milling about, so he waits at the end of the hall. 

It takes about twenty minutes for the place to empty out. It’s quiet for a while, then a young woman steps out with a bag over her shoulder, and turns to lock the classroom door.

“Ms. Baxter?” Gerry asks. She startles and drops her keys.

“Oh, goodness,” she says, snatching them up from the ground. “I’m sorry, you startled me. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’ve just got a few questions, if you don’t mind.” Gerry approaches her, and she tenses ever so slightly, looking up and down from his dyed black hair to his combat boots.

“Are you a parent?” she asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“No. I’m afraid this is a bit more complicated than that,” says Gerry. “We might want to go inside the classroom. Somewhere more private.”

“Are you the police?” Baxter asks, suspicion edging into her tone. Normally, Gerry would laugh at that, but he’s not trying to scare her off. 

“No. I just have a few questions about your… experience in June 2014,” he says. She gives him a blank look, processing for a moment—then her eyes go wide, and her hand flies to her purse. Gerry really hopes she doesn’t have mace or something.

“How do you know about that,” she says, her voice shaking. “How did… oh.” Her face hardens. “You’re one of those Magnus Institute people, aren’t you. I told them I didn’t want to be contacted again.”

“No, I’m not with the Institute,” Gerry says hurriedly. “But I did find you through them. I figured a first-hand account would be more useful than any of the old files they’ve got laying around. I just wanted to ask—”

“No,” Baxter cuts him off. “That’s over now, it’s in the past, it—it wasn’t one of your little ghost stories. I had a problem, and I got help. I’m sorry I can’t be of more use.” She locks the classroom door with a hard twist, and moves to brush past him. 

Gerry’s hand shoots out and catches her arm. “Please,” he says urgently. “I think it might be after me, too. We both know it was real. If there’s anything more than what you already said in your statement, I have to know.”

The desperation is only partly an act. Gerry only came across the Distortion once, and he hadn’t been its target; maybe he’ll never see it again. But if he’s caught its attention… well. He’s already far too close to the Eye, he doesn’t want to end up marked by the Spiral, as well. It’s not a power he can fight with knives and fire. If it catches him off guard, things could end badly for him.

Baxter stares back at him, her mouth pressed into a thin, scared line. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I… I’m sorry.”

She’s too scared. Gerry can feel it in her frozen stance, see it in her eyes, _taste_ it, sharp and trembling. She’s not going to tell him, but he needs her to, he has to know. “Please,” he repeats. “Just tell me, I won’t—”

“I said no.” She rips her arm away from him. “I can’t let that thing back into my life.” God damn it. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she has to—

“Just _tell me!_ ” Gerry explodes.

Baxter takes a step back. She swallows hard. “I said most of it in the statement,” she says. Her hand drops from her purse, and she looks at the floor, speaking almost to herself. “There were all these mirrors inside, and I could see this… this thing inside them, with misshapen hands and no real face. It was _taunting_ me, like a rat in a maze. You know the whole fight-or-flight thing? Well, I’ve always been more inclined to _fight_ , myself. 

“So I yelled at it. I said so many stupid things. I told it to stop laughing at me, that it wasn’t funny, it couldn’t possibly imagine what it was like to hurt the way my mind did in those corridors. I think that must’ve really pissed it off, ‘cause when I looked across the hall, there was one mirror that was totally blank. No reflection, no monster. I ran for it, and then… then I was out.”

An odd expression crosses Baxter’s face, and she looks up, frowning. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she says, uncertain. 

_Shit._

“But please don’t tell anyone else,” she continues. “I don’t want anything to do with whatever this is.” She ducks her head and hurries away, not looking back at Gerry once. Her footsteps click rapidly against the floor. 

Gerry’s hand curls into a fist reflexively. He keeps it there, held tight, so he doesn’t do something stupid like turn and punch a locker. His eye tattoos stand out stark black against the white of his knuckles. He exhales through clenched teeth. 

He hadn’t meant to force her into answering. He never does, but sometimes it just… happens.

It’s been months since the last time. He really thought he’d shaken it, that maybe the Beholding had gotten tired of him, or realized that he’d never willingly let it in. What a stupid idea. It might not have claimed him yet, but it’s got a tight grip, and it’s not letting go. 

If Baxter’s account is correct, then Gerry’s learned one important thing about the Distortion: it can feel, and it misses things when it’s distracted. But the knowledge comes with a bitter taste, the crackle of compelling static in his mouth. 

He would’ve rather stayed ignorant.

***

A bell tinkles overhead as Gerry pushes his way into the bookshop. The place is cramped and dusty, with books heaped on top of each other on the shelves, and more stacked on the floor. Gerry steps around a fallen pile and makes his way to the counter. The man behind the counter does a double take when he sees Gerry approach. 

That’s not an uncommon reaction, given Gerry’s aesthetic, but the man shrinks back with visible fear. Gerry watches him with narrowed eyes. He must know something of what he’s dealing with, if not the full picture.

“ _The Doors of Perception,_ ” Gerry says. “Do you…”

No. No questions, not if the Beholding’s acting up again.

“You have it,” he says instead.

The bookseller averts his eyes. “It’s spoken for,” he says with a trembling, reedy voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t think calling dibs really applies in this kind of situation,” says Gerry. “Name your price.”

“I… I really can’t give it to you, I’m sorry,” the man says, more agitated by the minute. “I can’t afford to betray my client’s, er, requests. If you know what it is, then you must know the lengths people will go to get their hands on it.”

“Yeah,” Gerry says. “And I’m one of those people.” He presses his fist to the counter, not-so-subtly cracking his knuckles against it, and leans over into the guy’s face. “So. The price.”

It’s almost funny how pale the man goes. He swallows hard. Then, drawing himself up, he lifts his chin and says, “Six thousand pounds. I-I really can’t go lower. I’ll need it in cash, as well.”

It’s a good bluff, Gerry will give him that. It’s a shame he came prepared.

“Perfect,” he says, dropping his messenger bag onto the counter. He pulls out stack after stack of pound notes, watching the man’s eyes get rounder with every one. Gerry’s willing to bet he’s never seen this much money at once in his life. It feels good to spend it—it’s his mother’s, not his, and that means he can’t get it out of his life quick enough.

“Six thousand,” he says when it’s all laid out. “The book, please?”

The man takes a step back. “Right,” he says shakily. “I’ll just… I’ll just get it, then.” His eyes dart around the room before landing on the door behind Gerry’s back.

“Oh, hang on,” Gerry says. “One more thing.”

He pulls a pistol from his bag and aims it at the man’s face. “Don’t try to run,” he says.

Gerry gets the book. 

He doesn’t actually have to shoot the man, which is a plus, even if he probably will end up dead once his client finds out that he let the book go. Gerry keeps one hand on his bag the entire way home. He can never be too sure that no one’s found him out, that he hasn’t been followed. Carrying a Leitner is always a liability. He doesn’t relax until he gets back to his flat, where there are protections in place. 

He sets the book on the kitchen table and sits down, giving it a hard look.

The question is how to destroy it. It’s a Spiral book, so burning it could be risky; he doesn’t know how it’ll react. It might take something more cunning to destroy a piece of the Entity that’s best known for bending reality. Maybe he could cut it into the most linear patterns imaginable, or take it to the archives, the Eye’s domain. But what would he do with it once he got there?

Burning is as good a starting point as any, he supposes.

He grabs the book and a bin to burn it in and goes outside, locking the door behind him. It’s never a good idea to burn a Leitner too close to his flat; he doesn’t want his living space destroyed if it reacts badly. He’s been doing it in the archives as of late, but Gertrude had just about ripped his head off last time, so it’ll be a while before he tries that again.

He settles on a nearby park. It’s open and empty, with a little cluster of trees that hide him from view if anyone does decide to stroll by. He sets down the bin and drops the book into it. The pages fall open with a ripple of color. Gerry keeps his eyes fixed on a point above them, avoiding looking directly at the shifting patterns.

He flicks his lighter, and heat flares between his fingers.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says a voice.

Gerry shifts his thumb and lets the flame die out with a _click_. 

He turns his head, and there’s the Distortion—Michael—standing only a few feet away. He looks distinctly more human than he did the last time they met. At least he has an actual face this time. He smiles, and it feels like a threat.

Gerry stuffs his lighter into his coat pocket. “What do you want?” he asks warily. 

Michael snorts. “Do you really not know?”

The book. Obviously. Gerry could just strike up his lighter and burn it now, before Michael could stop him, but that seems like the quickest way towards death by knife hands, so he doesn’t move. “What if I don’t want to give it to you?” Gerry asks.

Michael shrugs. “I could take it from you. Or perhaps not. I don’t much care where it ends up, but I would prefer if you did not destroy it.”

“And if I did?” Gerry asks.

“I would kill you before you could.”

Yeah, that checks out. 

It appears they’re at a stalemate, then. Gerry can’t well do anything to the book with Michael watching, but he’s not just going to hand it over, not after all the work he put into finding it. There has to be a third option.

“What if I made you a deal?” he asks. 

Michael narrows his eyes. “What kind of deal?” 

“I’ll take the Leitner, but I won’t destroy it. I’ll keep it somewhere safe,” says Gerry. No one will be able to destroy it that way, but it won’t be able to take any innocent lives, either. 

“Where?” Michael says suspiciously.

Gerry shrugs. “I dunno, the archives?”

“No,” Michael snarls. Gerry jumps. For a moment, Michael’s hair snaps into spirals, but just as Gerry’s mind struggles to keep track of him, he’s back to normal again. “Not there,” he says. “The Archivist cannot have it. She would destroy it.”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Gerry says quickly.

“She _always_ knows.”

“I could hide it from her?” Gerry tries. “She wouldn’t find out, I promise—”

“Servants of the Ceaseless Watcher do not keep their promises,” Michael spits. 

“Okay, okay,” Gerry says, his mind racing. “You don’t like Gertrude, got it. Okay, what if I just… took it to the Institute? Not the archives, somewhere else. I’d make sure Gertrude never found out. If she knew, she’d kill me before you ever got the chance to, she hates when I bring Leitners in.”

Michael looks unconvinced. “If she killed you, then what would stop her from destroying it?” 

Gerry sighs. “I was joking.”

“You were. But she would, if she felt it was necessary. She would not hesitate.”

“Yeah, you keep saying stuff about her,” Gerry says with a frown. “Why are you so obsessed with her, exactly?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wants to kick himself; what the hell is he doing, antagonizing this thing? 

Michael scowls. “There are many things to be said for the Archivist,” he says. “I doubt you have heard them all. She is almost as skilled in deceit as I am.”

“You talk like you know her,” says Gerry. 

Michael goes very still.

Then he flicks his fingers and opens a door from thin air. “Take your book,” he says. “Store it somewhere, consider it your victory. But not in the archives. If you—”

“Put it in the archives, I’m dead, yeah,” Gerry finishes. “I got it.”

The door smacks shut. The sound echoes, and Gerry is almost convinced there had never been a door at all.

***

Gerry knocks on Gertrude’s office door. She’s been out or busy for the past three days, but he knows she’s there this time; he’d checked with the first assistant he’d run across. Sure enough, her voice comes from within: “Who is it?”

He goes inside and shuts the door behind him.

“Ah,” she says. “Perfect timing. I was just going to give you a call—we’ve had a new statement in about the Corruption. It’s… rather interesting.”

“Are you going to let me read it, then, or just be cryptic?” Gerry asks. But, no—he’s getting distracted. He came here for a reason. He inhales deeply and says, “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“About?” Gertrude says, leafing through a file. 

“The Distortion.”

She doesn’t look up. “Still bothered about that, are you?” she asks, picking out a sheet of paper and placing it on the desk. “Here’s that statement.”

Gerry takes it. “That thing might be following me,” he says. “It showed up out of nowhere just a few days ago. Should I be worried?”

“Mm, no,” Gertrude says dismissively. “If it let you get away again, then perhaps its ways really are changing. It might get bored with you and move on. In the meantime, I’ve already put the necessary protections in place for the archives, and I’m sure you can take care of yourself. Now, if that’s all…”

“That’s not all,” Gerry snaps. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew it?” 

Gertrude adjusts her glasses. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Gertrude. It talked like it knew you personally.”

“I’m not surprised,” Gertrude says. “I know it in the same sense that I know Peter Lukas, or Arthur Nolan, or any of the Cult of the Lightless Flame. We’ve crossed paths several times in my attempts to stop it. I suppose you could say we’ve developed a… rapport, in the way that enemies do.”

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?” Gerry says impatiently. “If you’re so familiar with it, couldn’t you have given me a little more information?”

“You know most of it already. To be frank, Gerard, I didn’t expect it would bother you this much,” Gertrude says, raising one eyebrow. Her tone is straight and even. This is her favorite way to tease—so subtly that even if Gerry were to call her out for it, plausible deniability is on her side. Gerry is normally quite fond of her personalized brand of sarcasm, but right now, it’s just pissing him off.

“You didn’t think it might be helpful for me to know your history with it?” he asks. “Especially since it seems to hate you enough to take it out on me?”

“We can’t afford to be distracted by the Spiral,” Gertrude says with a shake of her head. “Not when the Corruption is gaining power. For all we know, it could be trying to throw us off the trail, make sure the Corruption succeeds.”

“But we don’t even know what the Corruption is doing!” Gerry insists. “Why would the Distortion be helping it? Don’t you think we should—I dunno, examine that connection more? Surely there’s something in its files, or, hell, I could just _ask_ it the next time it decides to stick its swirly face into—”

“No,” Gertrude says sharply. “Don’t give it any more attention than you have to, you’ll only encourage it. And _don’t_ go asking it questions. It doesn’t take kindly to interrogation.”

Gerry hadn’t proposed it as a serious idea—he was more arguing with Gertrude on principle than anything else. She deserves it, after leaving out details about Michael. But actually, it might not be a bad idea. Sure, it’d be dangerous, but historically, the things that Gertrude has tried to talk Gerry out of doing have been the most effective.

They’ve also gotten him hospitalized a few times, and earned him a month-long ban from the archives on one occasion when Gertrude got fed up with his recklessness, but they still worked.

There’s a knock at the door, and Gertrude’s assistant Emma pops in. She startles at the sight of Gerry. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, backing out again. Gerry grabs the door before she can close it.

“No, you’re fine,” he says. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t forget to read that statement,” Gertrude says, giving a pointed look to the paper in Gerry’s hands.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and waves her goodbye as he leaves.

***

Gerry drums his fingers against the side of the car. The sun outside is bright, and the air tastes fresh and clear. That’s why he’s staying in the car. The Corruption’s haunted house sits about a block away, and if he were to get any closer, he’s certain he would be able to smell the decay. It’s gotten worse since the last time he saw it. The doors and windows are still sealed—in fact, they look untouched, at least from a distance—but the entire house sags in on itself, almost ready to collapse. Gerry hadn’t known it was possible for a building to look sick.

The entire street is still. Gerry would think it was deserted if he didn’t know better, but he’s been keeping an eye on the place for a while, and there are definitely still people around. They go about their lives, cars leaving the driveways in the morning and returning in the evening, and all seems to be well. But once they’re home, they don’t leave. Not even the dogs dare to bark. 

He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again: it’s spooky.

A door slams somewhere nearby. Gerry jumps. He leans out the window, searching for the source of the noise, and there it is—only a couple houses away, a woman stands on her front doorstep, leaning heavily against the wall. She coughs into her elbow, a hacking, wet sound that echoes down the street. 

Gerry reaches into the passenger’s seat for a fire extinguisher and gets out of the car. 

The woman stumbles down the driveway to her car. Gerry would say she was drunk, but alcohol wouldn’t have her wheezing like that. She covers her mouth with her hand to cough again. Each breath seems to leave her dizzy; she wrenches the car door open and all but falls into the driver’s seat. 

“Hey!” Gerry calls, jogging closer to the house. He stops a few feet from the driveway. “Do you need help?” 

The woman waves her hand, not looking up at him. “I’m all right,” she says thickly. “Just a bit ill.”

“You sure?” Gerry asks. “That looks like more than a bit. Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes, yes. He came for a home visit the other day, actually. Said I was just fine.”

Well, that’s… good. She’s definitely not fine, but having her stay at home is better than going to a local clinic and risk infecting whole clusters of people. “You should probably stay home and rest,” Gerry says. He’d normally be more subtle when dealing with a stranger, but she looks so delirious, he could probably get away with saying anything, and she wouldn’t question it. 

“No, I can’t,” she rasps, and coughs into her sleeve again. “He told me if my symptoms persisted I should go straight to the hospital.”

Gerry pauses. “I thought you said he told you it was fine?”

“Oh… yes, well, I think there’s something going around,” she says distantly. “It starts out like a regular cold, but it can turn into something much worse. O-or something like that, I don’t really… I should go. I have to get to the hospital.” 

Shit. “Wait!” Gerry blurts out, but she’s already dragging the car door shut. 

Gerry backs up, hurrying to his car as she pulls out of the driveway. He tosses the fire extinguisher inside, gets in, and dials up Gertrude. 

She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“We were wrong,” says Gerry. “It’s not the house that’s spreading this shit, it’s worse than that. I just talked to someone—here, hold on.” He reaches into the glove box. He’s got a full roster of the neighborhood in here somewhere, with the names of each infected resident highlighted. He’ll have to add this lady to the list. He scans over the map for her house and name.

“Violet Jones,” he says once he’s found it. “Check that name in the files, see who she’s been talking to. Apparently there’s a doctor taking house calls, telling people they should all go to the hospital. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a really nasty place for the Corruption to start building a ritual, don’t you think?”

Gertrude sighs. “That sounds about right,” she says. “Come back to the Institute. We’ve got work to do.”

***

It all seems to come back to the hospital. All the people on Cedar Street who’ve fallen ill have ended up there—Gerry doesn’t even want to think about how many people they could’ve infected. If the Corruption manages to take over the place, it could kill thousands in one go. 

The only question is how. Contaminating an entire hospital full of people is one thing, but a ritual is another. There’s got to be a twist, an extra step that brings it to apotheosis. That’s the part that Gerry can’t figure out. 

He and Gertrude spend all their time hunting for the solution. Gerry interviews hospital workers, Cedar Street residents, and anyone they might’ve come into contact with. Gertrude keeps an eye on the infections inside the hospital, how quickly they spread and to whom. They both dig up old files on the Corruption, searching for a hint at its grand plan. 

And still it evades them.

After a week of no answers and worsening conditions, Gerry figures desperate times call for desperate measures.

He makes his way down to artifact storage, through the vaults and padlocked containers, all the way to a familiar set of shelves. There’s a safe sitting to one side. He punches in the code, and it hisses open, revealing a single faded copy of _The Doors of Perception._

Even if Gerry and Gertrude don’t know what the Corruption is doing, someone else—or some _thing_ else—might. 

Gerry takes the book from the safe. It sits heavy in his hands, as if he needs an extra reminder of how real this is, and what a stupid decision he’s about to make. 

He fishes his lighter from his pocket, striking up a flame. 

Michael’s door opens with a flash of movement, and a static shape lunges for Gerry. He drops the book and lighter and blurts out, “Wait! I’m not trying to burn it, I swear, I was just trying to get you in here!”

Michael has abandoned any attempts at holding a humanoid form. When he moves forward, it’s a seething twist, an implication of motion that curls close to Gerry’s face and makes his heart race. “You gamble with your own life,” he growls. It’s less speech and more a direct stream of meaning, pounding into Gerry’s consciousness. 

“I just wanted to get your attention,” Gerry says weakly.

“You have it,” Michael says coldly. Menace radiates from every hissing wavelength of distortion in his voice. 

Gerry nudges the book and lighter farther away with his foot, just to make his lack of destructive intent clear.

“So,” he says. “You were at the house on Cedar Street.”

“I know,” says Michael. He still appears as an incomprehensible mosaic of revolving patterns, but Gerry gets the distinct impression of narrowed eyes. 

“Why were you there?” Gerry asks. “Why did you take me?”

“I already told you, Assistant. I wanted to see what the Archivist would do without her little shadow,” Michael says. 

“But _why?_ ” Gerry presses. “Are you trying to help the Corruption? What is it planning?”

“I am not helping anyone,” Michael says. “I have no desire to assist the Crawling Rot, but neither do I favor It Knows You. So tell me, Assistant, even if I were aware of its schemes, why would I ever share them with you?”

Gerry shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t think you needed much of a reason to do anything. Isn’t that your whole schtick? Playing the wild card?”

“Yes,” Michael says. “But that does not mean I will help you.”

“Why not?” Gerry asks. “I know you don’t like Gertrude, but I don’t work for her. I don’t take sides, either.”

Michael hums. After a minute, his form twists down like a whirlpool, shrinking into something more comprehensible. He could pass for human, the same way he did when Gerry had first tried to destroy the book that’s lying on the floor. 

“I do not think ‘planning’ is the right word for what the Filth is doing,” he says. “It is playing a game. We all are. Some lay out their strategies, while others simply move as they see fit. Some just like to watch.”

“Like you?” Gerry guesses.

“No,” Michael says. “Like you and your Archivist.”

That’s unhelpful as ever. It does seem like he’s in a more cooperative mood, though, so… Gerry inhales deeply. He shouldn’t risk asking, but he’s curious: “How do you know Gertrude?” 

Michael’s smile curls wide across his face. “As a poor excuse for an Archivist,” he says. “You ask many questions, but they are all the wrong ones.”

So that’s how it is, then. He won’t answer, but he won’t kill Gerry on the spot for asking, either. Interesting. “How do I find out what the right ones are?” Gerry asks. 

Michael shrugs. “Perhaps you never will. But you can try. If you know where to look.”

“I’ve already looked!” Gerry says, frustration bleeding through into his voice. “I’ve read almost every statement on the Corruption, I’m tracking it, I’ve talked to Gertrude, I’ve _done_ it all. It’s not working. Do you think I’d have come to you if I had any other choice? I don’t even know what you are, not really! All Gertrude did was say you were like Peter Lukas or Arthur Nolan and move on! So how the hell am I supposed to know what questions I’m meant to be asking when—”

Michael holds up his hand. “What did she say?” he asks, his voice low and crackling with distortion. 

“A-about?” Gerry asks.

“Me.”

“She… she said she knew you as an enemy,” says Gerry, his mouth dry. “Like the Lightless Flame, or the Lukases.”

“I am _nothing_ like Peter Lukas,” Michael hisses. “He does not deserve the title of enemy. He is a peacetime ally, a hand she would just as soon shake as crush. He _fears_ her.” Michael’s hair winds in corkscrew curls, and his outline curls outwards, becoming less human by the second. “Peter Lukas would never dare to look her in the Eye and call her coward,” he seethes.

Gerry takes a reflexive step back. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know anything about him, that’s just what she said, I don’t—”

“No. It is the Archivist you know nothing of,” Michael snarls. “Find the right questions, Assistant, and let her be the one to answer. Let her share her secrets and squirm to hear them said aloud. Make her _Seen,_ and then perhaps you will be fit to learn of the Crawling Rot’s game.”

“O-okay,” Gerry stammers. “S-so if I do that, you’ll help me?”

“It is not a favor,” says Michael. “It is only fair play.” He reaches out and wrenches open a yellow door. 

“Wait!” says Gerry, but the door is already gone, and Michael along with it.

After a minute, Gerry slowly kneels down, still staring at the spot where Michael had been, and picks up the Leitner from the floor. 

It appears that, for the first time in weeks, he has a lead.

***

Gerry digs out every mention of Peter Lukas he can find from the archives. There are surprisingly few, given how long he’s been serving the Lonely—although Gerry supposes that makes sense, given how the Lukases tend to avoid the level of human contact that would lead to their names showing up in statements—but it’s still enough that it’ll take Gerry ages to wade through. He doesn’t care. He sits in the archives and he reads, then he sneaks a few of the files back to his flat and reads some more. 

There are a few mentions in relation to the space station Daedalus, and one account from a woman who swears she saw a man disappear into thin air, but nothing that would indicate any sort of partnership with Gertrude. In fact, she single-handedly wrecked his attempt at a ritual; there’s a file of notes about it in her own handwriting. If there’s another piece of their history, it’s either never been written down, or she’s hiding it.

Gerry’s starting to feel like this is a trap. The Distortion always lies; it’d be just like him to lead Gerry on a wild goose chase, planting seeds of doubt about Gertrude and the Institute and his own safety until the entire world seems out to get him. Classic Spiral-induced paranoia.

But Gerry would be lying if he said it didn’t make him a little uneasy.

***

Gerry waves to Rosie the secretary on his way into the Institute. She waves back with the same slightly bewildered smile as always. People tend to paint a mental picture of him as an asshole based on his clothes alone, but he likes to correct their assumptions whenever he can. If they deserve it, that is. Simple intimidation can be a surprisingly useful tool against avatars. 

He goes down the steps to the archives and toward Gertrude’s office. The door at the beginning of the hall is slightly ajar—Emma’s usually in there, or one of the other assistants. Gerry raps his knuckles against the door and pokes his head inside. 

It’s empty. In fact, the desk that’s usually covered with Emma’s things is barren, without even a pen atop it. Her desktop computer is turned off. 

Gerry goes back upstairs.

“Morning, Rosie,” he says. “Is Emma in today?”

Rosie smiles sadly. “Emma quit last week,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m sure one of the other archival assistants can help you, though.”

Fuck. “Thanks,” Gerry says, and heads down again. He walks quickly, his boots clunking against the stairs. You can’t just _quit_ a job at the Institute. If everyone thinks Emma did, that means someone’s covering up whatever really happened to her, and there’s only one person in the archives who could do such a thing. 

He barges into Gertrude’s office. “What happened to Emma?” he demands. 

Gertrude looks up from her computer, pursing her lips. “Do you want the gory version?” she asks.

“So she is dead, then,” says Gerry. 

Gertrude nods. 

Shit. Gerry really doesn’t want to know how it happened, which power took her in the end. He can never decide which would be worse: to die a blindingly painful but quick death, or to succumb to a power that keeps you alive and afraid indefinitely. He knows one of the two fates will come to him someday, and he’ll have to come to terms with whichever it is. In the meantime, though, both seem incredibly unpleasant. 

“Did you… file a missing persons report, or anything?” Gerry asks.

“Would it do any good?” Gertrude asks. “No one’s going to find her.”

“Still. People could at least know she’s gone.”

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out eventually.”

Gerry opens his mouth to say something—to tell her off, or ask how she could be so callous—but closes it again. This has happened before, it’ll happen again. Nothing he can say is going to make her suddenly start showing some compassion for her assistants. 

So he leaves.

He goes back to his flat and looks up Emma Harvey on his own. Her Facebook account has an embarrassing amount of public information—her phone number, her family, her job. There are even some photos of her at the Institute, laughing with one of the other assistants who died a year ago. 

Gerry writes down the other assistant’s name. He writes down all their names, any Institute workers who show up in photos or comment on Emma’s posts. He doesn’t know if they’re all dead, but there’s a good chance they are, and that no one’s given them proper closure. Once he has their names, maybe he can do something to make it right. File some police reports, or at least send flowers to their families. 

He scrolls through months of memes, mildly political posts, and the occasional selfie. The Emma in the photos gets younger. Her hairstyle changes. She wears chunkier glasses, the ones she wore when Gerry first ran across her at the Institute. There’s a photo of her from an Institute holiday party, beaming as she pulls a bit of stray tinsel from her hair, her arm thrown around a man Gerry doesn’t recognize. Another old assistant, maybe? He does look strangely familiar. 

Gerry clicks on the man’s face. A link leads to his profile. Gerry grabs his pen to write the name down, but as he glances back up to the screen, he freezes. 

His name is Michael Shelley, and Gerry knows his face. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes.

***

Gerry slaps the printed photo down onto Gertrude’s desk. “Who was he?” he snaps. 

Gertrude draws in a slow breath and takes the photo. Michael’s laughing in it, fully intact and human, looking as lighthearted as can be. He had no idea what was coming. 

“He was your assistant, wasn’t he?” Gerry asks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gertrude carefully sets the photo down. “It would only distract from what he is now,” she says. “That Michael is gone. Trying to see the Distortion through a lens of humanity can only ever end badly. It is fundamentally inhuman, and not bound to our concepts of emotion and truth. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Gerry snorts. “What, you thought I’d feel bad for him and go running to take his statement or something?”

“You never know,” Gertrude says mildly. “I thought you would be curious, at the very least. You might go looking for answers, unaware of the potential consequences.”

Well, she’s not wrong. 

“That’s not all, though, was it,” Gerry says. It’s not really a question. She’d need a better reason to hide it from him. “What happened to him, Gertrude?”

“I’m not sure you want to know that,” says Gertrude. 

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Gerry says harshly. “Tell me.”

“Gerard, I really don’t think—”

“What _happened_ , Gertrude?” Static crackles around Gerry’s voice, and Gertrude’s eyes flash.

“Don’t you try that with me,” she says, so steely Gerry almost flinches.

Sometimes, Gertrude can be very much like his mother. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I, I didn’t mean to.”

Gertrude sighs. “I know you didn’t,” she says. “That’s part of why I fear giving you too much information, at this point. I don’t want to exacerbate any… cravings you might already have.”

“I don’t,” Gerry says at once. “It’s not that bad. I don’t need to feed it, i-it’s not that kind of dynamic. I won’t let it get to that point. I’m just trying to… control it, right now.”

“You haven’t always been able to compel,” Gertrude says.

Gerry winces. “Yeah, that’s… that’s a more recent thing. But I’m handling it.” 

He _has_ been getting better at preventing the Eye from affecting him. Sometimes he can sort of tune it out, if he lets go of the need to Know. There’s a certain feeling that comes with rejecting it, a vaguely uncomfortable uncertainty, but he can lock onto it like a frequency and use it to anchor himself.

“If you don’t tell me what happened, I’m just going to go looking for answers somewhere else,” he says. “Like you said. It might not end well.”

Gertrude looks him over, and something almost like sadness crosses her expression before it smooths over again. She could be thinking a thousand different things, but Gerry’s fairly certain he knows which one it is. His path is already laid out for him, no matter how he tries to run from it. Someday he’ll just be another dead assistant on the pile.

“The Spiral’s ritual is called the Great Twisting,” Gertrude finally says. “It made the attempt back in 2011. It had constructed a great edifice of impossibility in Sannikov Land, Russia, which does not exist, and thankfully never will. Michael accompanied me on the ship, and once we got there—”

“Ship?” Gerry interrupts. “That wasn’t… that wasn’t the Tundra, was it?”

Gertrude gives him a strange look. “How on earth did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” Gerry mutters. Of course it would be Peter fucking Lukas. “Go on.”

“Hmm.” Gertrude purses her lips, but she doesn’t press. “Michael went into the heart of it,” she says. “I suppose that’s where he found the Distortion. Binding them together was enough to make the ritual fail.”

“So you sacrificed him,” says Gerry.

“If there was another way, I would have taken it.”

That explains why Michael seems to hate her so much. Gerry can see why she would want to keep this from him—better to keep him ignorant than lose his trust. Better to lie.

She probably thought that had to be done, too. 

“Don’t do anything reckless,” Gertrude says quietly.

“Don’t worry,” Gerry says. “I won’t go and get myself killed looking for information. Wouldn’t want to waste my death when it could be so much more useful, right?” He smiles wryly, and backs out of the room.

She was right. Knowing makes it worse. There are a hundred new questions bouncing around Gerry’s brain—what did Michael think of Gertrude, before she betrayed him? Why hasn’t he tried to take revenge on her now? Does he remember his descent into the Spiral? Did he know what was coming?

Did it hurt to lose himself?

On the way home, nauseous curiosity weighs heavy in Gerry’s stomach. He doesn’t want to imagine Gertrude leading Michael to his death, but he still finds himself picturing it, and itching to know the taste of his fear. 

He’s never been able to call it hunger before, but that’s what it feels like now. 

By the time he shuts the door to his flat, his breathing is shallow. He leans over the kitchen counter, staring down at the inky black eyes etched into the backs of his fingers. They stare back. He can almost feel them asking, _are you afraid?_

Gerry takes the switchblade from his coat pocket and flicks it open.

The knife presses into the bone of his knuckles with a searing swipe of pain. He drags it through the first eye, clenching his jaw hard as blood oozes from the cut. He lifts the knife and watches the line of red drip down his finger.

In only a few seconds, the cut smooths over, healing as cleanly as if it had never been there at all. The blood stays.

Gerry curses under his breath and washes his hand under the sink. Of course things aren’t that simple. He’ll just have to keep himself under control on his own. 

The water in the sink runs red, and he almost wishes Michael were there. A little distortion would come in handy right now; even if he can’t blind the eyes, he could at least confuse them. Michael would probably be glad to help. Given who he used to be, it’s no wonder he likes to fuck with the Eye. It’s… 

Gerry turns the sink off.

He knows who Michael used to be. He asked Gertrude about it. Was that the question he should’ve been asking all along?

Maybe now Michael will be willing to help him in more ways than one.

***

Gerry stares at his living room wall. It’s for the greater good, he reminds himself. If he can get any useful information out of this, it’ll be worth it. It’s just for the information.

Still, the itch of curiosity in the back of his brain is relentless. 

He knocks on the wall. 

Nothing happens. Obviously, nothing happens—it can’t be that easy to call out to the Distortion, what a stupid plan. He’ll have to think of something more creative, or maybe just wait until the next time Michael decides to show up. He wouldn’t just come because Gerry called. He’s a monster; there’s no way he’d let Gerry call the shots like that. Gerry shakes his head and retreats to the kitchen. 

As he’s walking away, a door opens. The sound creaks up Gerry’s spine, and he stiffens.

“You rang?” Michael asks.

Gerry turns around. Michael has his head poked through a yellow door, his expression unreadable. Through the opening in the door, Gerry can just barely get a glimpse of the yawning abyss of color that lies beyond. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t think that would actually work.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Michael says. “So I thought it might be better if it did.” He steps inside, and the door winks away. 

“Yeah,” Gerry says slowly, staring at the patch of wall that had never contained a door. “Makes things more convenient, I guess.” He looks back to Michael. It’s hard not to. The gravity of the room revolves around him; he’s too tall and twisted to look away from for long. Even if Gerry tried, his gaze would always be drawn back to Michael eventually.

This is his chance.

Gerry straightens up, steeling himself for what’s sure to be an ordeal of a conversation, if their previous ones give any indication. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Michael asks. The ends of his hair curl into themselves in infinite mobius loops. 

“The right question,” says Gerry. 

Michael smiles. “And did you ask it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The Archivist collects what you call evils, and holds them up before the Eye for judgement. It is only right for her own to be judged as well.” Michael tilts his head. “What is your judgement, Assistant?”

Gerry hesitates. 

“She’s not a good person,” he says. “I never thought she was. And it was wrong, what she did to you—to Michael. I don’t really know what to do about that, though.” He pauses. “I’m sure she’ll get what’s coming to her in the end.”

“So, you will keep working with her?” Michael asks.

“Yeah. She’s the most powerful ally I have right now. I’m not about to throw that away.”

“Hmm.” Michael doesn’t say anything more; he just watches Gerry.

“What?” Gerry asks. 

“I do not know whether you are smarter than the average assistant, or much more foolish,” says Michael.

“Can you please just call me by my name?” Gerry says wearily. “I’m not her assistant.” He smirks a bit. “I mean, if anything, she’s mine. Look at all this work I’m doing.”

That gets a laugh out of Michael. “What would you have me call you, then?”

“I dunno. Gerard? Gerry? Just… not ‘assistant,’ please.”

“Gerry,” Michael says, as if testing the feel of the name. “All right.”

Gerry nods. “So… There we are, then. I figured it out, what happened, I made sure Gertrude knows she’s not forgiven for it. Now will you help me?”

“And what would you like my help with?” Michael’s smile grows, as if there’s a joke Gerry isn’t in on. Shit. 

“The Corruption,” he says. “Its ritual. How do we stop it?”

“Oh, that old thing,” Michael says dismissively. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re clever enough.”

“You— _what_?” Gerry snarls. “We had a deal!” But this should have been obvious, of course Michael wouldn’t honor its word. It serves Gerry right, trusting the Throat of Delusion to give him reliable information, stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Michael laughs as Gerry seethes, the sound spiraling in a crescendo as he pulls a door out of thin air and vanishes through it.

Even once he’s gone, it stays open.

“No,” Gerry says flatly.

It stays open.

“If this is a death trap, I’ll fucking kill you,” Gerry warns.

The door doesn’t move. It might as well be beckoning.

“Oh, fuck this,” Gerry says, and walks through it. 

It opens into a sprawling foyer, with two sets of marble stairs curving up to the second floor. The ceilings are high, and the walls wide-set; it feels like there are miles between them. There are few decorations, save for a portrait of a man that hangs between the stairs. Its palette is washed out, too heavy on the blues and grays, so the man’s face looks cold and distant. 

Gerry walks up to it. His footsteps echo against the marble floor. Upon closer inspection, the painting has a layer of dust over it. 

A bronze plate at the bottom of the frame reads: _Mordechai Lukas._

“I do not think he would have called this place a death trap,” Michael says, his voice close to Gerry’s ear. Gerry jumps. 

“What the fuck,” he hisses. “Where the fuck are—Michael, is this fucking _Moorland House?_ ”

“Is that its name?” Michael asks absently, still looking up at the painting. 

“Why are—” Gerry inhales deeply, forcing himself to keep his voice down. “Why are we here?” he whispers fiercely. “What do the Lukases have to do with this?”

“Very little. They don’t care much for involving themselves in petty disputes,” says Michael. He leaves Gerry by the painting and starts to go up one of the staircases, his hair dragging through the air behind him, curling, wisplike, as if suspended in water. Gerry follows him. 

“What do you know of the Crawling Rot?” Michael asks. Gerry runs his hand along the marble railing. It’s cold to the touch, so much that it seems to suck the warmth right out of him. He rubs his hands together and shoves them into his coat pockets.

“It’s gross,” he says. “It can manifest as disease, or bugs, or anything like that. If you touch anything it’s come into contact with, it’s basically a death sentence; it can rot you from the inside out. It’s… also one of the only powers with no records of attempted rituals.”

Michael hums. “That is one way of looking at it,” he says. “There are many others.”

Gerry furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

They reach the top of the stairs, and Michael leads him off down a long hall. It’s lined with more paintings, all of hard-faced old men or empty fields. “What draws a person to serve a higher power?” Michael asks.

“I… don’t know,” says Gerry. “They feel like they could get something out of it, I guess? Or feel more in control of their own lives?” He’s always pictured it a bit like an unhealthy coping mechanism. When people have nothing else to turn to, they lash out against others or themselves. 

“That is one reason,” says Michael.

Gerry takes that as a prod to keep going. “Morbid fascination?” he suggests. “Maybe someone’s a bit too curious about something taboo, so they give in to it, and the next thing they know, they’re burning babies for fun?” Michael doesn’t say anything. “Okay, I give up. What am I missing?”

Michael sighs. “There may be a struggle for power, but there is no war. Not everything is an enemy.”

Gerry turns the words over in his brain for a minute. Not everything is an enemy. What’s that supposed to mean? That he shouldn’t be so mean to avatars? They can take a little derision from him; they’ve all had far worse. They all dedicated their _lives_ to far worse. Gerry still can’t understand why anyone would do such a thing.

Maybe that’s what Michael meant. Gerry can’t see the Entities as anything other than evil.

A lot of the avatars Gerry has met don’t seem to think of themselves as evil, though. They’re just… pragmatists, using their powers as a means to an end. Some of them—most notably the Lightless Flame—truly seem to care about their gods, as if they offer something more than fear and destruction. 

_And maybe they do,_ says a voice in the back of Gerry’s mind. He supposes each power could have some kind of appeal. The Eye has knowledge, and can satiate any curiosity. The Vast has nihilism, which could be taken as a comfort, if one sees their tiny place in the universe as a relief rather than a terror. Any of them could have a brutal sort of beauty, if only there was someone desperate enough to search for it. 

“Do you understand?” Michael asks. Gerry nods slowly.

“I think so,” he says. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the Corruption.”

“Then perhaps you do not understand,” says Michael. 

Gerry sighs and keeps walking. This hallway isn’t too different from the Spiral’s. It feels like it goes on forever. But it’s not confusing—it’s just empty, with only the disapproving eyes of long-dead Lukases to watch over him. What a bunch of old bastards, creating an entire family line devoted to the Lonely. They must have found beauty in it somewhere, though. The clarity of isolation, maybe, or the safety of it all—no one can ever hurt you when you’re alone. 

Gerry’s eyes pass over a painting of a still ocean. He’s really starting to get tired of these barren landscapes. Even with Michael right next to him, the way the entire house is built to feel empty is itching at him, like ants under his skin. At least ants are never alone.

He pauses.

Could that be it?

Insects and bacteria and masses of crawling things, hives moving as one, the deathbed solidarity of the diseased. Is that what makes the Corruption beautiful? Does it feel like a home?

Probably more than this place does.

“I think I get it,” Gerry says softly.

“Good,” says Michael. “Then we ought to take our leave. I doubt the Lukases would bother coming to tell us off personally, but if they noticed our presence, they might make things… unpleasant.” He goes to the nearest door, and it opens into a mass of static. “After you,” he says.

Gerry steps through.

The door slams shut far too loudly. Gerry whips around, but Michael is gone, and so is the door. The hallway is a headache of mirrors and forking passages. “Michael?” Gerry says. His voice sounds tinny and distorted, like it’s coming from someone else. Laughter echoes from somewhere far away.

Fuck. He’s trapped.

_Fuck._

Gerry tries to take a step forward and topples into the wall. As he falls, space rotates and flips; the dimensions reorient themselves. His vision doubles and bursts into swarms of spiraling shapes. He grabs the wall to stabilize himself. There hadn’t been a wall there before.

He forces himself to breathe. He can’t freak out now, that’s what Michael wants. Gerry’s let him get the upper hand again—he was right all along, Michael never would have just shown up in his living room to give him the information he needs. There’s always a catch.

And this time, it might just be his death. 

No. No, Gerry’s not going to start thinking like that. His heart is already jackhammering in his chest, and panic is flooding into his limbs, but he can’t let it win. He’s read the statements; he knows how to get out. All he has to do is find the right mirror. 

He starts walking. His reflection walks alongside him, bent out of shape into something twisted. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see it watching him. Its eyes are dark, and its smile has far too many teeth. He doesn’t look any closer.

A hum of distortion vibrates deep beneath his skin. It’s like an itch he can’t scratch. Gerry walks faster, scanning for anything that looks out of place, but the only things he can make out are the blinding bursts of color and his own distorted figure. Camille Baxter escaped from the only mirror that didn’t show Michael—now, Michael isn’t in any of them, but Gerry has a feeling that doesn’t automatically turn them into escape routes. He’ll have to find something else.

It’s hard to keep track of anything in the Spiral. What look like solid objects or corners smear as he walks by them. He tries to grab a door handle, but finds himself grasping at empty air. He curses and takes the next left into a branching path. The floor is covered with a striped carpet. 

He steps one foot onto it, and the hall in front of him contorts and bulges out of shape. 

Gerry freezes. The floor bends down, pulling away from him like taffy stretched to the breaking point, and a wave of nausea sends him reeling. He stumbles back, then breaks into a run. Pieces of the walls break off as he sprints down the corridor. They shatter in a crystalline cacophony of sound. Behind him, there’s nothing but white. The emptiness is gaining on him, eating away at the floor. 

A chunk of the carpet in front of him falls away.

Gerry stumbles to a halt, but his momentum is too strong. He falls forward, only to land against a wall. The impact vibrates through his bones like a gong being struck. He groans in pain and pushes himself back to his feet. Aftershocks go rippling through him. Something has been knocked out of place in his brain. His vision is fuzzy, and his tongue feels too thick in his mouth; his hands belong to someone else.

He sways and falls straight into a mirror. 

The world spins around him. Flashes of hallways and shapeless rooms dance before his eyes. Gerry can feel his grip on himself fading. His body is an afterthought, his existence a forgotten dream. Fractals swarm, break, and reform. He had wanted something; what was it? Did it really matter? 

Laughter echoes in his ears, pressing into him from all sides, seeping deep into the core of him. 

Gerry is thrown tumbling into a new hallway. He catches himself the first doorknob he sees, pulling himself to a halt. The jolt sends pain sparking up his arm, and for a moment, he can see clearly. The door. The boundary. The exit.

He wrenches the door open and collapses through. 

His mind whirls in circles. They gradually slow down, leaving him a dizzy heap on his own kitchen floor. Michael’s laughter spirals around him. 

“Fuck you,” Gerry slurs, and the world slips into blackness.

***

Gerry doesn’t leave his flat for days after his trip through the Spiral. He barely leaves his bed. It feels like someone’s electrified his brain until it melted out through his ears. Every time he tries to get up, his head spins, and eating food always carries the risk that he’ll throw it right back up. It’s hard to keep his thoughts in order. Whenever he thinks too much, or focuses on a particular piece of knowledge, it’s like his brain latches on too hard, trying to understand every last bit of it before it loses control and goes spinning all over again.

His eye tattoos look angry, though they haven’t visibly changed.

It’s a terrible idea to keep interacting with Michael. Gerry’s honestly surprised this hasn’t happened sooner. The Eye and the Spiral are diametrically opposed—all the parts of Gerry that want to _know_ things can’t exist in the same vicinity as Michael, who destroys any semblance of objectivity with his very non-existence. There are consequences to their strange relationship.

Things slowly get better as the days go by. Gerry regains the ability to eat and to walk around. His thoughts fall in line more easily. After a week or so, he’s back to researching, and as he’s reading about a victim of the Slaughter, the exact time and location of her death pop into his head uninvited. 

He takes it as a sign of recovery. It’s not entirely a welcome one. 

After a few days, he decides he’s well enough to start visiting the Institute again. He checks in with Gertrude before he does anything, then heads into the archives. There’s a decade-old statement that also mentionsdealt with the local hospital, but in connection to the Flesh instead of the Corruption—he’s just managed to locate it and start determining whether it’ll be of any use when a prickling feeling goes up his spine. He always feels like he’s being watched, with the Beholding and all, but the entrance of a second presence into the room is unmistakable. He reaches for the switchblade in his pocket.

He knows who it is. It couldn’t be anyone else. 

“There’s no need for that,” says Michael. 

Gerry looks up. Michael leans against the shelf across from him. He doesn’t move, and the creeping unreality that surrounds him remains at a steady pitch, not swelling or moving to overload Gerry’s brain. It’s only a matter of time, though. 

“Here to finish the job?” Gerry asks. He draws his knife and flicks it open.

Michael laughs. “Would you attack me?” he asks. 

“Maybe. If you’re going to kill me anyway, I might as well go down fighting.”

“Interesting,” says Michael. “Fighting would not do you any good, you know.”

“Might save me some dignity, though,” Gerry says tersely. “If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it, will you?”

“Not going to call for help?” Michael asks. “We are in the archives. I’m sure there are better ways for you to fight back than with that thing.” He flicks his finger at Gerry’s knife. Gerry grips it tighter. What is this, some kind of sick power play? An attempt to remind him how powerless he really is, even in his own domain?

No. The Eye’s domain, not his.

Gerry holds up his knife. “This is mine,” he says. “The rest isn’t. I’m not going to rely on anything else to save me.” That kind of choice feels too final, like a sign of something bigger. He’s not handing his life over. If it’s death or the Beholding, Gerry will take death.

“You’re very stubborn,” says Michael. “It will be your ending, one way or another. But that end will not come today. I am not here to kill you.”

“Liar,” says Gerry. “You tried before, you’ll try it again.”

“I’m sorry,” says Michael.

Gerry opens his mouth and closes it again. How is it that even now, Michael still manages to catch him off guard? 

“You what?” he asks. 

Michael shrugs. “I just wanted to see how you would react, last time. You held up much longer than I expected.”

Gerry gapes. “Don’t bullshit me, I’m not that stupid,” he finally manages to say. “You’re not sorry.”

“Perhaps I am not,” says Michael. “But it seemed like the appropriate gesture.”

“I… what?” Gerry can’t wrap his head around it. “Why are you trying to get friendly _now_?” he asks. “We had a deal, and you made good on it already. You helped. You don’t have to stick around anymore.”

“I don’t have to, no,” Michael says. “But I think I will.”

God damn it. “Let me guess,” Gerry says flatly. “Because I’m interesting?”

Michael giggles. “Exactly,” he says. 

He doesn’t leave. Gerry keeps expecting him to whisk away into a door like he usually does, but he stays for the rest of the day, looming at the edge of Gerry’s vision. Gerry keeps an eye on him at all times. It’d be too embarrassing to go through all this only for Michael to kill him the second his back was turned. Michael doesn’t try anything, though. 

Gerry thinks he might have gotten more than he bargained for.

***

In the following weeks, Michael starts appearing in Gerry’s flat, as well. He shows up a few times, randomly occupying a seat at his kitchen table or watching Gerry work. Gerry doesn’t talk to him, and he never stays long. Gerry almost wishes he would—it could be nice, having him around to distort things a bit. Maybe then the Eye wouldn’t keep pushing pieces of knowledge into his head like gifts, as if knowing that the woman in a certain statement died at 8:42 PM makes him any likelier to start worshipping the Beholding. 

But no new doors appear, and Gerry is alone.

He hasn’t told Gertrude that he’s still talking to Michael. She’d just snap at him and tell him he’s going to get himself killed—Gerry’s last encounter would be all the proof she needed. But as time goes on, and Gerry can look back on it, it doesn’t feel like it was a genuine attempt on his life. It had, in the moment. Michael certainly _could_ have killed him. But he’d pulled back at the last moment.

All the times they’ve met, and Michael’s never made a genuine attempt on Gerry’s life. It’s starting to seem like he never will. His sudden appearances certainly don’t make Gerry tense like they once did. 

There’s always the latent fear, though. The worry that maybe _this_ will be the time Michael decides to end it, or the next time, or the next. This could all just be a long con, lulling Gerry into a false sense of security before he pounces. Maybe that’s what Michael’s getting out of this—not outright terror, but a steady stream of quiet paranoia. Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe he thinks that if he wins Gerry over, he can get Gerry to become something like him. 

The uncertainty of it is what Gerry can’t stand. Even when everything seems fine, it itches at the back of his brain, whispering that he’s making a mistake, that his naivete will get him killed. He just wishes Michael could make things a little more clear. Even another near-death experience would at least shed some light on his motivations. 

The next time the sound of a creaking door comes from the kitchen, it’s almost a relief. Michael appears in the entrance to the living room. “Hello,” he says. 

Gerry raises his eyebrows. “You’re back,” he says. There are books and newspapers scattered across the couch beside him. He gets up to put one back on the shelf, bringing him a few feet away from Michael. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you? Hate to break it to you, but I’m still not doing anything worth your attention.”

Michael ignores him and moves past into the living room. “What are you working on?” he asks, picking up a book from the couch.

Gerry plucks it from his hands. “Don’t touch those, you’ll distort everything,” he says. “I’m still on that Corruption case. I think they’re planning to use the local hospital as a ritual site, I’ve heard some buzz from their people.”

Michael snorts. “Was that a joke?”

Gerry grins. “Maybe.”

“It wasn’t a very good one.”

“Wow,” Gerry says, dropping down onto the couch. “Here I was thinking you thought everything was funny.” 

Michael perches on the opposite arm of the couch. Gerry opens his laptop and resumes reading, Michael an idly shifting collection of angles in the background. It’s surprisingly easy to work with him around. No details helpfully appear in Gerry’s mind, but it feels more honest that way; if he’s going to stop this ritual, he’s going to do it as himself, not as an agent of anything bigger. 

He works for a couple of hours until the words start to bleed together, and he rubs his eyes. Michael is still sitting across from him. He’s slid down from the arm onto the actual couch cushions, but he’s still far enough away that he isn’t invading Gerry’s space. Gerry’s honestly surprised he hasn’t gotten bored and left by now.

It’s nice to have company, though.

***

Things have changed.

Nowadays, Michael shows up more often, sometimes to offer Gerry a door, sometimes for no reason at all. It’s… strange, to say the least. Gerry tries his best to stay wary, but it’s hard not to get used to Michael’s comings and goings. If he wants to stand in the corner of Gerry’s kitchen and make cryptic comments, then so be it, as long as he doesn’t get violent.

Usually, Michael will just sit on the couch with Gerry while he’s doing research. Sometimes he takes Gerry’s books and looks through them, like he’s got things to learn about the Corruption, too. 

It’s not really doing anything to answer Gerry’s questions about why he does all this. Why he shows up every once in a while, hanging around like it’s nothing. There has to be _some_ kind of reason. 

After a while, Gerry can’t take it anymore.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” says Michael. 

“You haven’t killed me yet,” says Gerry.

“That is not a question.”

“No, no, I’m getting there.” Gerry watches Michael closely. “You haven’t killed me yet. But you keep coming back. So… why?” Then, the real question: “Is this just your fucked up way of trying to claim me for the Spiral? Because I’m pretty sure the Eye’s already called dibs.”

Michael giggles. “Oh no,” he says. “The Eye wants you, yes, but not the way I do.”

“I… Okay.” Gerry doesn’t really know what to make of that, but he’ll take what he can get. As long as Michael’s not trying to get him to become an avatar. “Just to be clear, the Eye might want me, but it’s not going to get me,” he says. “I won’t go to it.”

Michael tilts his head. “Would you go, if it were the Spiral?”

“No,” Gerry says firmly. “Never. I wouldn’t give myself to any of them.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, maybe the same reason I’ve spent my entire life fighting them?” Gerry says sarcastically. “They’re evil.”

“Are we?” Michael muses. “I’m not sure if that’s true. We only do what is natural to us. Is a wolf evil when it slaughters a sheep?” 

“People aren’t sheep, Michael.”

“But they aren’t so different. What makes a human life objectively more valuable than an animal’s? Nothing. Nothing at all, except perhaps your own pride. You would like to think yourself superior, but you are all the same in the eyes of your masters.”

Gerry rubs at his eyes. “Don’t start on philosophy with me,” he says tiredly. He knows not to get a creature of the Spiral going about objectivity unless he wants to lose his grip on it. He likes reality the way it is, thank you very much, and he can do without the extra headache of listening to Michael ramble about the mysteries of life. 

Michael watches him for a minute. “You are scared,” he decides.

“Pardon?” says Gerry.

“You are too afraid to bind yourself to any higher power. Not only because of what they would have you do, but because you might enjoy it.”

Gerry barks out a laugh. “And where the hell did you get that from?” 

“Don’t worry,” Michael says. “It’s not such a uniquely terrible thing. Almost everyone has a part of them that aches with fascination for the things they fear. Most people would enjoy giving themselves over, if they had the chance.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Gerry says shortly.

“Are you sure about that?” Michael’s sitting up now, leaning closer to Gerry.

“Yes,” says Gerry.

“Hm,” says Michael. “I could change your mind, I think.” The low buzz of feedback that undercuts his voice vibrates deep in Gerry’s bones. He inhales sharply, just to feel the air in his lungs and know they still work properly. 

“You think so?” he asks. 

“Yes.”

Michael is closer now, too close, close enough for Gerry to actually keep track of where his features are. His eyes shine in multicolor brilliance. They pierce right through Gerry—not like the Beholding would, but in a way that’s more powerful and uniquely Michael, a disconcerting thrill that keeps Gerry pinned in place. He can’t hold eye contact for long. His gaze flicks down to Michael’s mouth. 

It’s an automatic response; just muscle memory filling in what feels natural when someone is this close. It’s fine. It’s… nice, actually. Gerry doesn’t know what’s going on here, but he doesn’t dislike it. 

“I think I could make you enjoy it very much,” says Michael.

The tiny, rational part of Gerry’s mind is screaming at him to move away, to tell Michael to fuck off, to do something, _anything_. But that’s not the part that’s in control. The part that is in control is a little hostile, a little stubborn, and a lot reckless.

So he licks his lips and says, “Prove it.”

Michael flickers forward like a glitch and grabs Gerry by the collar, pulling him into a kiss. 

It’s like dropping off the peak of a rollercoaster. 

Gerry’s mind whirls to keep up, but his body responds automatically. Michael’s surprisingly soft with him, and the sensation of his not-quite-mouth on Gerry’s is sweet and intoxicating, a slow haze for Gerry to melt into. Dazy heat pulses through him as the fever dream takes over. His only anchor is Michael, the way his lips close against Gerry’s, the curl of his fingers around Gerry’s back. Gerry sighs and wraps his arms around Michael. 

Michael giggles into his mouth. The sound floats down into Gerry’s lungs and pops like a soap bubble. 

Gerry pulls back, breathing hard. He feels—he doesn’t even know, God. He’s dizzy, his skin tingling with pinpricks of hot-cold pleasure wherever Michael touches him. He wants Michael to kiss him again, all over, diffuse that feeling into every inch of him. Right here, right now, he might do just about anything for it. Michael has him in the palm of his hand. Helpless.

Fuck. That’s not a good thing. 

A jolt of panic goes through Gerry. He pushes Michael away and scoots back across the couch. “You should go,” he blurts out. “You should—yeah.”

“Now?” Michael asks. 

“Yes,” Gerry says quickly. He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. His lips are still numb and kiss-bitten, probably bruised red. Fuck, his whole face is probably red. He doesn’t even want to know what he looks like, with his hair falling in his face and the fucking Distortion putting stars in his eyes. 

“I told you,” Michael says smugly. 

“What?” Gerry asks, pulling his legs up in front of him. Anything to put a bit more space between them.

“That I could make you enjoy it,” says Michael.

And with that, he gets up and slips through a door connected to nothing at all.

Gerry stares after him for a long time.

***

Gerry keeps one hand pressed against his side as he reaches up into the cupboard. His fingers are sticky with blood; he can feel it soaking through his shirt with each pulse of his heartbeat. He takes down his medical kit and flips it open with his free hand. 

Alcohol wipes, needle, thread, gauze, tape. It’s a bitch laying them out with only one hand. Using them is going to be worse. Gerry carefully takes his hand from the wound, and a stab of pain goes through him. He winces. Best to work quickly, before he loses too much blood. He disinfects the cut, swearing under his breath the entire time—it stings like hell—and goes for the needle. 

He’s just managed to thread it when the door creaks open. 

“That’s quite a cut you’ve got there,” Michael observes. Oh, fuck, not _now_.

“Fuck off,” Gerry says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t have the mental or physical strength to deal with Michael right now, and they both know it. Gerry can’t let him try anything. If he dies today, it’s going to be from the injuries he got while fighting for himself, not because a monster kicked him while he was down. 

“Is that any way to greet someone?” Michael asks. He plucks the needle from Gerry’s fingers. 

“Give that back,” Gerry growls. 

“Or what?” Michael asks, the smug bastard. Gerry makes a grab for it, but Michael just laughs. “Careful,” he says. “We wouldn’t want to aggravate that cut any more than it already has been. You might well bleed out.”

Is that a threat? It sounds like one. Michael moves in closer, and Gerry stumbles back until he hits the counter. “Don’t touch me,” he says. 

“Relax,” Michael says. He hooks a finger into the collar of Gerry’s shirt and slices down, the fabric splitting in one clean motion. Gerry yelps in surprise, but before he can move, Michael has both his hands pinned to his chest. 

“This is going to hurt,” Michael says calmly. “But I would advise you not to move too much.”

“Wait,” Gerry says quickly. “Wait, Michael, what are you—”

Michael lets his hands go, and carefully threads the needle through the ragged edge of Gerry’s cut. Gerry inhales sharply. “Don’t scream,” Michael says. Gerry doesn’t, but every muscle in his body is tense as he watches Michael fix up the wound with straight, even stitches. 

When he’s finished, he sets the needle aside and goes for the bandages. He works quietly, layering gauze over the row of stitches and fixing it in place with medical tape. He’s surprisingly gentle. It only takes him a few minutes before the wound is entirely dressed, and he shifts back. “There,” he says. 

Gerry’s hand hovers over the gauze pad. The pain is still there, but it’s less insistent, the sterile bandages keeping it contained. 

“Did you have to cut the shirt, though?” he asks. “I liked that shirt.”

Michael’s features are hard to keep track of on any given day, but Gerry’s pretty sure he just rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he says.

Gerry doesn’t even bother asking why. It’s too obvious of a question; it won’t get him anywhere. The most he can do is shrug it off as another one of Michael’s absolutely inexplicable decisions. 

There have been a lot of those lately.

***

Gerry very determinedly does not think about the kiss.

He still can’t justify it to himself. He’s chalked it up to the Spiral messing with his head, confusing his decisions. That’s the only way Michael could be affecting him like this. He’s… enthralling, for lack of a better word. Every time he comes close, it floods Gerry’s senses with a cloying blush of intrigue, and that’s how Gerry knows it's not natural. He’s never had this kind of reaction to a monster before. 

So he doesn’t think about it, and Michael doesn’t stop showing up. Gerry pretends the flat doesn’t feel empty when he leaves.

Once cockroaches start crawling out of Gerry’s bathroom sink, there’s a moment of panic where he wishes Michael never _did_ leave.

The first time it happens, he squishes them into a paper towel and burns it. After that, they stay away for a while, until they decide to start coming from the kitchen sink and bathtub faucet as well. Gerry sprays the hell out of them with bug spray and calls Gertrude.

“Why now?” he demands. “What did you do?”

“Hm. I expect they’re getting restless in anticipation of the ritual,” says Gertrude. “Be careful. You may want to stay away from home until we’ve stopped it. There’s room in the archives, if you—”

“I’m not sleeping in the bloody archives, Gertrude.” 

Instead, Gerry stocks up on fire extinguishers and tapes over any open faucets in his flat. He can make do with bottled water for a while. It’s a risky move, but he’s tired of all this waiting; if something is going to come for him, it might as well get it over with so he can kill it once and for all. 

He doesn’t have to wait long.

He’s reading through a stack of medical reports at the kitchen table when he hears a faint skittering noise. Gerry tenses. It seems to come from all around, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He grabs one of his fire extinguishers and goes to the center of the room, ready to spray.

The noise gets louder all at once. Gerry turns. He searches for the source, and— 

As if on cue, bugs cascade from the nearest heating vent. He sprays the CO2 in their direction. They hiss and shrivel, but while his back is turned, something crashes against the front door. 

When he whips to face it, cockroaches are streaming from the crack beneath the door, but they don’t approach—they scurry up the door to the latch. Gerry swears and shoots a jet of carbon at them. He can’t make it in time. They swarm over the lock, forcing it down.

It slowly clicks open. 

A woman stands in the door.

“Gerard Keay,” she says. Her voice is thick and scratchy, like there’s something stuck in her throat. She coughs, and a worm lands on the floor with a wet splat. 

“That’s me,” says Gerry. “And you…” 

He means to ask, _and you are?_ because he’s always had a bad habit of making jokes to diffuse tension, but the words die in his mouth, because he doesn’t need to ask. He’s seen her before. 

“You’re Violet Jones,” he says, his heart sinking with the realization. The very same woman who he’d seen peel off Cedar Street in her car, off towards the hospital that would not heal her, but soak her in sickness until there was nothing else left.

“So you do remember,” says the husk that was once Violet. Her eyes are red and sticky, smeared with decay, like rotting holes in her face. “I remember you. You tried to make me stay home, that day.”

“I’m sorry I let you go,” says Gerry. 

Violet laughs, though it sounds more like a retch. “No need to apologise,” she says. “I’m where I need to be, now.” 

Gerry’s hand tightens around the fire extinguisher. “Why are you here?” he asks. 

“You’re unclaimed,” Violet says listlessly. Flies buzz around her head. One lands on her forehead and crawls across her eye. “The archives aren’t much of a home. I thought… maybe you would want a new one.”

Gerry laughs incredulously. “You’re here to _recruit_ me?”

“It was only a thought,” says Violet. “I’d just as happily kill you.”

And with that, she lunges. Gerry jumps out of her way. He pulls the trigger on the canister—it emits a thin hiss and spits out a few globs of foam. He pulls harder, but the gauge on the top has hit the red. 

Violet smiles with blackened teeth. A swarm of insects races for Gerry. He jumps right over it. There’s another canister on the kitchen table. He reaches for it, but jerks his hand away at the last second. A creeping mold has spread over it, coating the handle with a subtle layer of gray slime. _Shit_.

The rest of the canisters are in his bedroom, and the bugs are still scuttling after him. No time to plan.

Gerry throws his empty canister at Violet’s head and bolts.

He barely makes it into the bedroom. He locks the door and throws himself against it, keeping it pressed into place. He’s already installed covers over the cracks around _this_ door, thank God. 

Violet catches up with him in seconds. The door handle rattles, and the sound of thousands of scurrying legs pours in from outside. “You can’t hide forever,” she spits. “My little ones will sing to you, too.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Gerry grits out, “but I’m really more of a Bauhaus person, y’know?”

Another thump at the door. Gerry digs his feet into the floor, leaning hard against it. Fuck, he needs a desk, something to shove in front of the door and keep it closed, but he can’t risk moving away.

“We could teach you what it is to be loved,” Violet coaxes, a thousand tiny voices whispering along. “The Beholding watches, but it does not feel. There is so much you do not know.”

Gerry angles himself farther against the door. A single fat worm wriggles out from below the doorframe. He stamps on it with his boot, squishing it into the floor. That awful squirming sound gets louder, and from behind the door comes Violet’s muffled, wheezing laughter. 

It’s almost enough to cover the sound of a door swinging open.

“Let her in,” Michael says quietly.

Gerry doesn’t have time to process his presence. “Are you crazy?” he hisses back. “She’ll kill me!”

Michael smiles. “Or we kill her.”

Oh. Well, in that case.

“I appreciate your concern,” Gerry says into the door. “But I think there’s a few things _you_ don’t know.” 

He backs up to the other side of the room, brandishing his CO2 canister, and nods to Michael. Michael throws the door open. Violet hisses with triumph. Her mass of filth rushes forward, only to be greeted by a cloud of carbon dioxide that Gerry sprays at it. Violet’s hiss turns to a wail, and by the time the gas clears, Michael is standing before her. 

Her face goes blank with shock. “Distortion,” she says. “What—”

She’s cut off with a choking noise as Michael grabs her by the throat. “It would do you well to pick your victims more wisely,” he says coldly. “Some are spoken for.”

Violet’s eyes flick wildly around the room. “He’s not marked,” she manages. “Not by you. A-and don’t we all want to see the archives fall?”

Michael’s fingers tighten around her throat. She gags, and centipedes crawl from her open mouth. “You will not harm Gerard Keay,” Michael growls. “He is _mine_.”

Violet’s face blanches an even sicklier shade of pale green, and she coughs out a few pill bugs. Even so, she manages a sneer. “Since when do you go shielding the Beholding’s little brats?” she asks. “You’ve gone soft.”

“I disagree,” says Michael, and slashes her throat open with a swipe of his thumb. 

Gerry claps his hands over his mouth and backs away. He tries not to inhale. If he breathes in even a speck of her filth, it’s over—but before Violet can even go limp, a door opens behind Michael, and they both fall into it. It’s the blink of an eye, and they’re gone. 

Gerry doesn’t waste any time. First he rips the tape off the sink and washes his hands until they’re raw, then he pours bleach over the floor where Violet had stood, scrubs it into any exposed surfaces, and disinfects the shit out of the entire room. Once he’s convinced that any remaining germs have been obliterated—though he can never be sure—he goes and takes a shower, shivering even as the hot water reddens his skin.

She’s gone. She’s dead, and since his sinks aren’t pouring bugs anymore, it seems like nothing’s coming after her. Plus, if anything tried, Michael would take care of it.

Gerry lets out a slow breath and relaxes into the stream of water.

***

It starts as a subtle ringing in Gerry’s ears. He’s hunched over his kitchen table with three different books spread out in front of him, and at first, it’s easy enough to wave off the incoming headache as eye strain or pure mental exhaustion. But then comes the creak of hinges. 

Gerry sits up, looking back over his shoulder. There’s a new doorway in the middle of the wall, and Michael is waiting within it. “Hello,” says Gerry. 

And just like that, Michael is inside. The door swings shut into nonexistence. Michael just stands there, watching Gerry. It’s hard not to get sucked into the hypnotic patterns of his eyes. The silence presses into Gerry’s chest. The longer they go without speaking, the louder the static in his ears gets, so he says, “It’s been a long time.”

“Time is a lie,” says Michael.

“Yeah, well. It’s a lie that everyone on the planet has collectively agreed to live under, so forgive me for still paying attention to it,” says Gerry. Michael drifts closer. He’s still staring. It’s getting kind of weird, even for him. “You’ve been gone a couple weeks,” Gerry says. “I was starting to wonder if you’d come back.”

“I did,” says Michael. “I would not leave. Not now.”

“Not now what?” Gerry asks.

Michael doesn’t answer. He comes up behind Gerry and runs his fingers through his hair. Gerry doesn’t flinch. Michael’s hands don’t really feel the way hands should, but they aren’t sharp, and the sensation is still nice. Gerry leans back into it. “So, are we going to talk about last time?” he asks.

“Last time?” Michael echoes.

“Yes. You ripping apart a Corruption avatar after she attacked me? You telling her I was _yours?_ ” says Gerry. 

Michael hums. “Does it need to be talked about?”

Gerry laughs incredulously. “I—yes? Since when are you protecting me?”

“Since I felt like it,” says Michael.

“Okay,” Gerry says slowly. “And why did you feel like it?”

Michael shrugs. His fingers brush down to the base of Gerry’s neck, grazing along his collarbone. Gerry tilts his head back. “It is not the Crawling Rot’s place to end your life,” Michael says. “You do not belong to it.”

And there it is again. The implication. “I don’t belong to any of the powers,” says Gerry. 

Michael smiles. “That is not your decision,” he says.

Gerry tenses. Michael is right—avatars can choose to give themselves to an Entity, but no one chooses to be taken. Sometimes a power will mark you, and there’s nothing you can do about it but prolong an inevitable fate. That’s what Gerry’s been doing for a long time, with the Eye. There’s always been an unspoken question, though, of whether he’s fated to die beneath its gaze or become a part of it. It’s always felt like one or the other. Dead or consumed, but always by one power, always by the Eye. 

Michael’s finger traces along Gerry’s jaw. Gentle. Possessive. 

“I thought you said the Spiral didn’t want me,” Gerry says, his mouth dry.

“It doesn’t,” says Michael. 

Gerry furrows his brow. “But you think I belong to it?”

Michael’s smile widens. “No,” he says. 

Gerry can’t look away from him. It’s getting uncomfortable, keeping his head back like this, and he’s acutely aware of the position he’s in, with his throat exposed. But he can’t move. Michael’s eyes are mesmerizing, swirling with colors and patterns, crinkled ever so slightly with a smile. They pull at Gerry like there’s a magnet in his chest, drawing him closer, closer. It’s almost like before, when he’d been trapped in the hallways and the Spiral had overwhelmed him, pulling his consciousness from his body and dangling it over an abyss. He can feel his heartbeat resonate through his entire body. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Gerry whispers. 

“Perhaps,” says Michael. His fingers go sharp, and pain seeps across Gerry’s neck. Gerry grabs onto the edge of the table, his breathing shallow. 

“Michael,” he says. 

“Gerry,” says Michael.

“Please don’t.”

Michael laughs quietly. The pressure on Gerry’s neck increases. Pain leaches across his skin, and he can feel the blood starting to drip down. His knuckles are white against the table. Fuck. _Fuck,_ not like this. He wouldn’t kill Gerry like this, so _simply,_ with a slashed throat and not even a hint of distortion or deceit. He doesn’t get anything out of it; this isn’t the kind of fear that fuels the Spiral. It doesn’t make sense.

Unless that’s the point.

Michael slowly drops his hand. Gerry gasps, touching his neck, feeling all over—the skin is unbroken, with no blood and no cut. He’s still breathing hard as Michael comes around to sit on the table in front of him. Michael looks amused, like he’s waiting for something—for Gerry to cuss him out, probably.

Because… that’s what it’s about. Gerry’s reaction.

Of course. 

There’s a pattern to this. There always has been.

Michael keeps Gerry on his toes, keeps him guessing, but if he was really going to kill Gerry, he would’ve done it a long time ago. Now… now, the threats are empty, and they both know it. Perhaps that’s Michael’s way of showing affection. Wielding the potential of death overhead like a knife, with the implicit knowledge that he will never bring it down. 

The silence stretches out, with only the sound of Gerry’s heavy breathing to fill the air between them. 

It’s not like the Distortion, to allow such a truth to bleed through. It’s not like it to chase after humans without killing them or turning them into something else entirely. This is something new and inexplicable. 

Maybe that’s why Michael likes it. 

Maybe that’s why Gerry can’t look away. 

“It’s you, isn’t it,” Gerry says. 

“What do you mean?” Michael asks.

“It’s not the Spiral I belong to. It’s you.”

Michael’s lips curl into a smile. This is the part where Gerry should be afraid, more so than ever before—they’re beyond the cat and mouse game now. If it’s his _life_ , not his death, that Michael has a claim over, Gerry can’t even begin to imagine the implications. He’s marked much deeper than he ever expected. He should scrub that mark away as quickly and as thoroughly as he can. 

But he doesn’t want to. 

Why doesn’t he want to?

“Michael,” he whispers. 

“Yes?”

“What do you want from me?”

Michael hums. He smiles into the distance, looking at something Gerry can’t see. “I do not know if I want anything,” he says. Gerry stands up, bringing himself to Michael’s eye level. 

“Liar,” he says. A declaration, a description. A challenge.

“Yes,” says Michael. His face is lost in a sea of coiling shapes, and his outline is a mere suggestion, but Gerry can see straight through him. _Human_ would be too generous a word, but Gerry knows that, despite everything, Michael is enough of a person to have desires. He just… can’t communicate them very well. 

Gerry could chart the space between them on a map, analyze every inch and the way it pulls at him, but he can’t think straight anymore. His heart is racing, and it’s not from fear. 

“If you can’t tell me what it is you want, then show me,” he says.

“What?”

“ _Show me,_ ” Gerry growls, and the words taste like static. 

He doesn’t know who moves first.

Michael crashes into him, and Gerry can’t even bother to determine where Michael’s mouth is before they’re kissing fiercely, Michael melting into him, Gerry’s hands buried in his hair. 

It feels like Gerry’s entire body is jammed into an electric socket. He gasps into Michael’s mouth, his vision morphing into neon hues of pink and orange, a technicolor wildfire of neurons misfiring. There are no words to describe the sensation. Michael hums and deepens the kiss, hot and open and hungry. Gerry wants to sink into him and never come up for air, drown in the golden hum of static that fills his lungs. 

Michael pushes Gerry back, and the dimensions of the room are forgotten. Gerry’s back hits a wall. His breath catches in his throat. Michael captures his lips in a kiss, and Gerry’s head swims with sparks. Michael licks into his mouth, sucking at his bottom lip. 

“Michael,” Gerry barely gets out. “I—” 

He can’t finish the sentence. 

Michael keeps him there for a while, pinned to what passes for a surface, until Gerry’s squirming beneath him. Their lips collide hard and hot, and Gerry wraps his arms around the back of Michael’s neck to keep him close. Michael doesn’t need the encouragement—his form is just cohesive enough to lean into Gerry’s neck and press open-mouthed kisses along it. Each one is a point of heat that goes straight to the pit of Gerry’s stomach. His senses of space and time dissolve into a smear, defined only by the off-beats of his racing heart. 

Michael nips at his collarbone. Gerry lifts his chin to give him better access. At this rate, Michael’s sure to leave him covered in a spiral of bruises, a mark that screams of ownership. Any avatar who sees will know exactly who Gerry belongs to. For some reason, the thought of it makes him hot all over; he’s got to be blushing like a fucking schoolgirl. He puts his hand on Michael’s chest and says, “Wait.”

Michael pauses, and Gerry takes the opportunity to shrug his shirt off. 

It leaves him completely exposed, not so much a risk as an invitation. Michael doesn’t say anything. His hands slide up Gerry’s sides, following the slope of his waist. They feel different—still not human, still longer than they should be, but softer, with no edge of danger. He brushes over Gerry’s nipple, and Gerry shudders. He hasn’t felt anything like _that_ since his top surgery. 

It should be embarrassing. The slightest touch from Michael has him arching his back into it, but he feels like revelation and tastes like rapture, so when Michael bites down on his neck, Gerry drags his fingers down his back, pressing them flush together. 

“Is this all?” he manages.

“All what?” Michael asks. His voice is a low thrum of distortion in Gerry’s ear. 

“All you wanted,” Gerry says.

Michael giggles. “Impatient,” he says, almost fondly. 

He kisses Gerry breathless, each moment a searing flare of pleasure, until Gerry pulls his knees up to wrap his legs around Michael. The current that flows between them is super-charged, running on fervent heat and desperation. Michael shifts closer, and Gerry’s hips kick up automatically. He’s achingly turned on, dizzy with it, and he can’t help grinding against Michael in the hopes of just a little bit _more_. 

“You asked what _I_ wanted,” Michael says, and Gerry can feel him smiling, the sweet sting of it against his throat. “But I think you want this just as much as I do.”

“No,” Gerry says. Michael shifts again, more deliberately this time, rolling his hips against Gerry, and Gerry lets out a noise that’s half-gasp and half-whine. 

“Liar,” Michael whispers. He drags his fingers down from Gerry’s hips, hooking into his waistband. Gerry parts his legs, his breathing shallow, buzzing with anticipation. Michael slips down further, so close, so close to where Gerry wants him. Gerry can’t help it; he lets out a frustrated noise, pressing closer to Michael. 

“What?” Michael asks with a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief and hunger. He’s clearly enjoying this. He pulls at Gerry’s waistband, and—no, Gerry isn’t wearing pants. Had he been? He isn’t now. Michael rubs gently against his inner thighs, and Gerry’s brain short-circuits. 

“What would you like me to do?” Michael asks. 

“Anything,” Gerry says faintly. “Just…” Stop teasing, give him something, let him fall into the spinning state of unreality where all there is is Michael and the way he makes Gerry feel. 

“I ask the questions now,” Michael says, with a hint of smugness that makes Gerry want to find a good way to shut him up. Michael traces along Gerry’s hipbone to the crease of his thigh, stopping, lingering. “I can’t compel it out of you, so you’ll just have to tell me. What do you want?”

Gerry shoves his hands up beneath Michael’s shirt, or what passes for one. “I want to see,” he says. 

Michael pauses.

“Are you sure?” he asks. It’s the first note of uncertainty Gerry has heard in him, maybe ever. “It’s… I’m not… like you,” he says. Gerry responds by kissing his neck. His lips go numb and tingling as Michael’s figure blurs. There’s a sharp zap of electricity like a static shock. Gerry jerks back reflexively, and Michael stares back at him with wide and spiraling eyes, his skin bare.

Gerry can’t really process the sight of him—Michael’s body is less a body and more a feeling, an impression made of sensation and negative space, Gerry’s mind bending to fill in the gaps in his perception. He can’t see the details, but that’s alright; he can feel the nervous-hot pulse of the fractals that coil through Michael’s core, the closest thing he has to a heartbeat. He’s an impossibility that Gerry is built to be afraid of. He drops Gerry off the deep end of his comfort zone into confusion and arousal and burning need, and he’s _beautiful_.

Gerry grabs Michael’s hand and pulls it between his legs.

Michael touches him carefully, tentatively, his fingers slipping down to where Gerry’s dripping wet. “Fuck,” Gerry breathes. He clutches Michael’s hair in a tight fist, as an anchor for himself or for Michael, he doesn’t know. Michael slides along his slit unbearably slowly, stopping just short of his cock, the teasing motherfucker, _fuck_ — 

“Michael,” Gerry whines. 

Michael giggles. “You’re quite different like this,” he says. “Much more… cooperative.”

“Maybe you should try it more often, then. And fucking touch me while you’re at it, fuck, Michael, come on—”

“Ah, there we are. That does sound more like you.” Michael presses against Gerry’s cock, and Gerry sees stars. “Is that good?” 

“I—yeah,” Gerry manages. “That’s really good, fuck.”

“Hm. Good.” Michael’s thumb moves in circles around him, too slow, too gentle, not nearly enough. Still, it makes Gerry shudder and roll his hips into it. Michael rubs him wet and slick until it’s so, so easy to work his fingers in, and that pulls a moan from Gerry’s throat. Michael’s still teasing his cock all the while, and that angle really shouldn’t be possible, but god _damn_ does it feel good. 

“Fuck,” Gerry sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. His head whirls. He’s losing himself again, slipping out into a dream. Fractals seep through him, punctuated by spikes of _yes_ and _more_ and heady bliss that nearly makes him whimper. 

Sometimes it feels less like a hand on him and more like something inanimate, hard in all the wrong places, but Gerry’s not complaining. It’s too good for him to care. Michael’s fingers curl inside him, filling him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. Gerry gasps and clings to him. He’s dizzy with the feeling of Michael’s fingers sliding out of him, slowly spreading him open before thrusting in harder. He bites down on the undefined space between where Michael’s neck and shoulder should be. 

Michael exhales a laugh. It’s remarkably restrained, for him, but the distortion still settles over Gerry’s bare skin like pins and needles. Gerry shivers. He runs his hands down Michael’s back as Michael crooks his fingers _just_ the right way, and Gerry digs his nails in hard. “Like that,” he chokes out, and Michael does it again, sending shocks of shivering sweet pleasure all through Gerry’s body. Gerry lets his head fall back, breathing hard, all attempts at speech forgotten.

He keeps his legs spread, pushing into the sparking friction of Michael’s hand on his cock. Michael kisses him, and Gerry moans into it. Michael hums with approval, and fuck, _fuck_ , that’s—Gerry can _feel_ the distortion, arcing through him in a jagged buzz. It zings down his spine and leaves him tingling all over. “Do that again,” he says, not begging, definitely not, except for how he totally is. 

“Do what?” Michael asks. Gerry clenches around his fingers and bites his lip hard.

“Talk to me,” he says in a strained voice. “Let me feel it, feel you— _really_ you.”

Michael kneads at his cock with a little more pressure, starting to go faster. “There is no real me,” he says. Gerry swallows a moan, but then Michael strokes him just right and it comes out anyway, high and breathy. 

“Yeah, well,” he manages. “I—I know sometimes you try harder not to look like a monster a-and, _fuck_ , sometimes you don’t, but I don’t care if you do, I still—fuck—oh, God.” Gerry can feel the pressure building. Every time Michael speeds up, it ripples through him in shuddering waves. “Oh, fuck me, keep doing that—”

“Why should I?” Michael murmurs.

“I need it,” Gerry says, desperate and uncaring, “Fuck me, _please_ , I’m gonna—”

“Hmm. Since you asked nicely,” Michael says, grinning, and fractures into something far less comprehensible but far more tangible—a pulse of _something_ curls inside Gerry, electric and vibrating with distortion, making him cry out, it’s so, it,

he just,

shatters. 

For a while, the world is fuzzy.

It takes him a long time to come back to himself. His senses creep back in one by one, until his mind has settled into place and his limbs feel like his own again, heavy with delicious satisfaction. “Holy shit,” he says dazedly. His voice echoes strangely in his ears.

Michael just giggles. “I’ve decided I like that very much,” he says. 

“Yeah, well.” Gerry blinks hard until Michael comes back into focus. “You’re not the only one.”

He takes Michael’s hand and places it over his chest, where his heart beats in a steady pulse of one, two, three.

***

It happens again. And again. And again. 

Once Gerry lets Michael in, he can’t stop. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s fucking insane, that he’s probably being manipulated, that this is the last thing he should be allowing himself to indulge in. But he can’t bring himself to care. Michael is a head rush more exhilarating than any high he’s ever had, and he just can’t _stop_. 

Even when Michael’s not around, Gerry’s thoughts always end up wandering to him. He dreams of distorted laughter and cold hands curling around his waist. He wakes up, and his bed feels empty, though he’s always slept alone. 

Michael stands next to Gerry as he makes breakfast. Gerry keeps an eye on him as he works, trying to make sense of Michael’s confusing mess of features, trying to pick out something, anything that could be called human. He doesn’t find anything. But his heart still jumps into his throat when Michael pushes him up against the counter, and as his mind lights up with blissful delirium, a distant part of him thinks maybe he doesn’t need human. Just this, this, always this. 

He’s too far gone to turn back now.

***

Avatars of the Lonely are difficult to find. They spend all their time wandering the Forsaken, or piloting boats a thousand miles out to sea, or hanging out in isolated mountain cottages. But even when they become lonelier than any human could bear, they still have remnants of humanity in them, old instincts that draw them to the edges of cities where they can remind themselves of what they’re missing. 

The books, though. The books don’t have those instincts.

Gerry’s always been sure that the Lonely has Leitners out there somewhere—he doesn’t think the Entities can feel, but if they could, he’s sure the Lonely would like the idea of having a pure, distilled piece of itself to sow terror in the world. No avatars involved, no people. Just a victim and a book. 

After all, they do say reading lets you escape from the rest of the world. 

Gerry’s never seen a Leitner like that, though. They’re damn near impossible to track down—which is why, when he sees the listing online for a “cursed” copy of _100 Years of Solitude_ , he buys a plane ticket to Norway on the spot and goes to retrieve it.

It’s funny, really, to think that this is where it’s ended up. Gerry doesn’t know where Leitner was originally from, if it was Germany or Norway or somewhere nearby, but it just feels ironic that a book would show up here. It’s like walking into Leitner’s back yard. Maybe this is a newer one, and it hasn’t gone far down the endless chain of ownership yet—maybe the last hands to hold it were Leitner’s. Gerry could find him, for real this time, not like that false lead he’d had years ago.

Gerry hopes not. It would be better if Leitner was dead.

The search leads him to a bookshop in a tiny little town. Gerry goes inside. A woman at the counter calls out a greeting in Norwegian. Unfortunately, that’s a language Gerry doesn’t speak, and he’s not too keen on reaching out to the Eye to see if it can serve as a translator. Instead, he pulls out his phone and starts typing into Google Translate.

The woman sees what she’s doing and waves her hand. “It’s okay,” she says, in English. “Do you speak English?”

Gerry nods. “Thanks,” he says. “I just have a question about a book you listed online.”

There’s a chair behind the counter. The bookseller sits down and rolls over to the desktop computer sitting off to the side. “Which book?” she asks. 

“ _100 Years of Solitude,_ ” says Gerry.

She smiles. “Oh. The cursed one, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I’m sorry, but I have already sold it,” she says apologetically. “Someone came in a couple of hours ago. I only listed it as ‘cursed’ as a joke, but it seems like people are really interested in that kind of thing… I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Gerry pauses. If he came all this way for nothing, he’s going to be _so_ pissed. “You called it cursed as a joke,” he says slowly. “So… it’s just a normal book?”

“Well…” She shifts uncomfortably. “No. It’s definitely strange. But it feels silly to call it cursed, don’t you think?”

Oh, thank God. “I guess,” says Gerry, trying not to let his relief show. “Did the person who bought it tell you their name? Or could you describe them, maybe?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around. Everyone has. He…” A funny look crosses the woman’s face. “There are a lot of strange people in this town,” she says. 

Gerry doesn’t doubt it. 

“He lives on the edge of town, in the big black house,” says the woman. “You could probably find him. Would you like directions?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Gerry copies down the directions into his phone and heads outside. As he’s walking down the main road, he keeps one hand on the knife in his pocket. He might not know what kind of person he’s dealing with, but he can guess—a Lonely avatar, or someone on the cusp of becoming one. That’s something he can deal with—the Lonely is actually one of the easier Entities to fight. All it takes is an anchor, and Gerry has plenty. All the people he works to protect by destroying Leitners, the nameless, faceless masses that keep him going—they’ve got to be enough. How could the Lonely ever get to him when his entire life is in service of other people?

And if that’s _not_ enough, then there’s Gertrude. Gerry might not trust her, but he likes her well enough, and he knows the feeling’s mutual. There’s her assistants, and Rosie the secretary, who seems to have gotten over her fear of goths and always smiles back at him these days. 

And then there’s Michael.

If the rest of them aren’t enough, Michael has to be. 

Gerry follows the instructions from the bookseller, past the main road and off through the trees on a smaller dirt path until he comes to a clearing. A tall, dark house sticks out from the landscape. Gerry keeps an eye out for cameras, but there doesn’t seem to be any security, and there’s no car in the driveway. No light comes from the windows. 

Gerry does the natural thing—he finds the window that’s closest to the ground, smashes the lock, and climbs inside. 

It seems like a pretty normal house. The room he’s entered looks like a sitting room of some sort. There’s an ornate fireplace, a few plush armchairs, and a dark carpet across the floor. It’s hard to make out the pattern on it in the darkness, but Gerry isn’t about to turn on a light; if someone drove up to the house, they’d see it for sure. 

In the corner of the room is a bookshelf. Gerry listens hard, but there are no sounds of life in the house, no indication that anyone’s home. He creeps over the shelf and starts to look over it. The books are mostly unmarked, with covers made of cloth or thick leather. Gerry slides one off the shelf. He draws his knife, ready to use it if this thing is a Leitner, but when he opens it up, nothing sinister happens. It’s just a book, full of handwritten notes. The pages look ancient. 

Gerry skims over the writing. It’s in messy cursive, and the darkness of the room only makes it harder to read. He’s just about to close the book and put it back when a name jumps out at him: Maxwell Rayner. 

Gerry freezes.

Very slowly, he puts the book back, and takes another look around the room. 

There are no lamps anywhere to be found, and painted above the mantelpiece is a symbol of a hand and a closed eye. 

It seems that Gerry had misjudged which power the buyer was aligned with. 

He is painfully aware of the fact that he has failed to bring a torch with him.

“Looking for something?” says a voice from the darkness, and Gerry is slammed into the bookshelf. His knife flies from his hand. 

The man’s hand shoots for his throat. Gerry knocks it away and tries to swing at his assailant. He just dodges, and his fist catches Gerry in the jaw. Gerry’s head spins, but before the man can hit him again, Gerry sucker punches him in the gut. He grunts, and in the split second of inaction, Gerry slams his elbow into his face. 

The man staggers. Gerry knees him in the groin. He doubles over, and Gerry hauls him back, pushing him into the same bookshelf he’d had Gerry pinned to.

“Where’s the book?” Gerry demands.

The man spits in his face. Gerry doesn’t flinch; he just presses his elbow harder into the guy’s neck. “Where is it?” 

The man’s breathing is heavy, but his eyes blaze bright. “Guess your little Eye doesn’t know everything, does it?” he snickers. “What’s the matter, can’t see in the Dark?” His English is perfect, with no trace of an accent. 

“Fuck off,” Gerry growls. “I know you have it.”

“Then you’ll have to find it on your own,” the man breathes, that same manic light in his eyes. “Kill me yourself, or throw me through your magic door; either way, you’re not getting shit.”

Gerry nearly chokes. “Magic door?” he asks, before he can stop himself. “What do you—”

“Oh, I know about your little friend the Distortion,” says the man, grinning even as blood trickles down from his nose to his lips. It stains his teeth red. “Heard it sliced up one of the Corruption’s zombies for you. You thought people wouldn’t notice? The second that girl went down, a thousand others like her felt it. They _knew._ You really thought you could kill part of a _hive_ and keep it secret?”

“What does it matter to you?” Gerry says roughly. “It wasn’t your hive. It’s not your ritual I’m after.”

The man barks out a laugh. “Sure, sure. Not this time,” he says. “But you never stop. You’ll get there one day, and if the Distortion’s taking sides now… well. It might have flown under the radar before, but the People’s Church doesn’t let threats stay threats for long, if you catch my drift.”

Gerry grabs his collar and yanks him in close. He doesn’t plan to, but the fury that crashes over him is wild and white-hot. “If you fucking touch him,” he snarls, “if you lay one _fucking_ finger on him, I swear—”

The man laughs again. “What?” he says gleefully. “You’re actually loyal to it? Here I was thinking you’d gone and put it on a leash somehow, thought you must be something smart, but you’re just another blind motherfucker, aren’t you?”

Gerry punches him in the face. His nose crunches beneath Gerry’s fist, and the resulting howl of pain gives him a vicious twist of satisfaction. He shoves the man to the ground and presses his boot against his neck, hard enough to make his face go red. He wheezes, hands pawing uselessly at Gerry’s boot. 

“Give me the fucking book,” Gerry says, “or I kill you right here.”

He lets up on the man’s neck just enough for him to draw in a gasping breath. “Fine,” he manages. “There’s a church in town, there, under the altar—”

“No, I don’t think so,” says Gerry. The lie stands out strong and clear in his mind. The book isn’t hidden, Gerry can feel it, he can see it, it’s—there. 

He crouches down and throws the man’s coat open. There’s a pocket in the inner lining, where the book is tucked safely away. The bastard would have walked away with it if Gerry had given him the chance. Gerry takes it out and slips it into his own jacket.

“Thanks,” he says, and gives the man a swift kick in the head to knock him out.

***

The security feeds within the hospital are, for the most part, uneventful. Gerry fast-forwards through hours of footage, from the pediatrics unit to the ICU. Dying bodies are wheeled to the operating room. Dead ones are wheeled to the morgue. Entire wards become infected, black mold creeping from the lungs outward, until the people are unrecognizable husks of mottled rot. 

Gerry tracks them all. He tallies down the numbers each day, the exponential growth of the infection rate. It’s building to a peak, but there’s still something missing; it’s still not enough for a ritual.

He scratches out a series of equations and rubs at his eyes. Onscreen, a pair of workers in blue scrubs wheel a gurney into the morgue in double-time, their motions jumpy with the replay. A few seconds later, they scurry out again and vanish down the hall. 

Gerry watches idly until a single detail catches in his brain.

He grabs the controller and jams the rewind button. The attendants approach backwards, retreat into the morgue, and emerge with the gurney. Gerry lets it play again. It’s just as he thought. 

Two workers enter. Three emerge. 

“Shit,” he says to himself, and rolls his chair back. He leans over toward the door. “Hey, Gertrude?” he shouts. “I’ve got something you might want to see.”

Her footsteps approach, and she steps inside. “Yes, Gerard? What is it?”

“Take a look at this.” Gerry lets the tape play, and points to the three workers on screen. “The morgue,” he says. “That’s got to be it. They’re filling the corpses up like piñatas.”

“Don’t be crude, Gerard,” Gertrude says, making a disgusted face.

“What? I’d bet good money that if you whacked one of those things, bugs would come flying out,” says Gerry. “It’s an assembly line, Gertrude. The Corruption’s got a little zombie factory right in the basement, and then once it’s got enough…” He pauses. “I dunno. It sets them on a rampage?”

Gertrude hisses through her teeth. “And then it does exactly what we did to that house,” she says. “It seals the exits.”

Oh, shit. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Gerry asks. 

Gertrude shakes her head slowly. “I’m not sure,” she says. “This… complicates things. But we’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, speaking of which.” Gerry reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the Leitner he’d retrieved from Norway. “If we’re stuck on ideas, this might be of some use.”

Gertrude stares at it, shock and exasperation battling for a place in her expression. “Gerard,” she says. “Tell me you were not toting around a Leitner in your _pocket_ —”

“I only brought it here to give it to you,” Gerry interrupts. “It makes sense, all right? The Corruption’s got its whole thing about belonging and being one with the hive mind or whatever, so the Lonely might be our best bet to fight it.” He hands Gertrude the book. “I was thinking we could take it inside and rip out the pages, stash them at all different corners of the hospital. The more isolated they are, the stronger they should be, right?”

Gertrude raises her eyebrows. “That’s not a bad plan,” she says. 

“I know. So when do we do it?”

Gertrude carefully sets the book down. “Yes,” she says. “About that.”

Gerry doesn’t like that tone. “What?” he says suspiciously.

“I think I’ll be handling this particular ritual on my own,” Gertrude says. “Less risk of contamination that way. I’ll be in communication with you, of course, but—”

Gerry stares. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” Gertrude says, raising her eyebrows. 

“What?” Gerry demands. “Gertrude, we’ve been in this together the entire time! You can’t just dive straight into that—that fucking cesspool on your own!”

“I can, and I will,” Gertrude says severely. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Gerard, and usually without help. You are the exception to the norm. Besides, you—”

“Why?” Gerry asks flatly. “You’ve been acting like we would do it together this entire time. What changed?”

Gertrude laughs, dry and incredulous. “Are you this eager for another chance to risk your life?” She shakes her head, her face hardening once more, and says, “I don’t know why that surprises me.”

“Don’t talk to me about risking my life, you’re the one trying to jump into this alone!” Gerry argues. “Why do you not want me involved anymore? What am I missing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” Gertrude snaps back. “Would you care to explain why the Distortion is so eager to protect you?”

Gerry freezes.

“I,” he says, and this throat closes up. Oh shit. Oh, fuck. How does she know? How _much_ does she know? His face is burning. He looks to the screen, trying to force his heartbeat back into a proper rhythm before he responds. “How do you know about that?” he asks in what he hopes is a level tone of voice. Jesus, does _everyone_ know now?

“You’re not the only one who comes into contact with avatars,” Gertrude says coldly. “Word spreads quickly. You aren’t nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

Gerry swallows hard. “He’s been helping,” he says defensively. “I’m not suddenly aligning myself with the Spiral or anything, Christ, Gertrude—”

“The rest of the world seems to think you are,” Gertrude says. “But I don’t think so. No, I think you’re just making _very_ poor decisions, and not caring about the consequences. You’re free to be as reckless as you like, let it come back to bite you someday, but I will not let your death wish interfere with stopping this ritual!” Her voice ends in a shout.

“I don’t have a death wish!” Gerry shouts back. “I didn’t even mean for it to end up like this, it just happened, and it’s not like it hasn’t been beneficial—”

“Only a fool would trust the Distortion! I thought you were better than this. Your presence at the hospital would only be a liability now, it’s better for you to keep your distance—”

“Fuck you,” Gerry spits. “You’re not exactly the most trustworthy, either.”

“I do not have a vested interest in killing you,” Gertrude retorts. 

“You don’t?” Gerry asks, feigning amazement. “Oh, that’s right! I never signed on as an official Institute employee. Thank God I had that much foresight. Might change things if I had, wouldn’t it?”

Gertrude sighs. She looks away, and the anger seems to drain out of her, until she speaks with an air of quiet disappointment: “Come back when you’ve come to your senses. I sincerely hope that you do.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Gerry mutters, and gets up from his chair. He stalks out the door and doesn’t look back.

He seethes all the way home. How _dare_ she call him a liability. He’s only ever been an asset to her, and the second he goes to a different source of intel, she cuts him off? She’d taken the Lonely book, and she’ll use it happily enough not knowing where the idea came from. She’s just too fucking ashamed to think about Michael, to face what she turned him into. 

But… no. She’s not ashamed of it, is she.

Gerry knows he’s not being entirely fair to her—only a few months ago he would’ve throttled his current self for getting so close to Michael—but he can’t help it. His fury has teeth and claws, and it tears at him from the inside. 

It must be freeing to be a monster. At least when everyone is afraid of you, they’ll never dare to tell you who you can be loyal to.

When Gerry gets back to his flat, Michael is waiting for him.

“Thank God,” Gerry says, and throws his arms around him. Michael actually stumbles back a bit, and Gerry crowds him up against the wall, leaning up on his tip-toes to kiss him hard. 

It turns dirty almost immediately, more bite than kiss, a mess of teeth and tongue that stings as much as it leaves Gerry desperate for more. He shoves his jacket off without pulling away and pulls Michael down towards him, angling his head so Michael can kiss him deeper. 

When he finally does pull back to breathe, Michael says, “Hello,” a little bemused. 

“Hi,” says Gerry. “You should fuck me.” He lifts his shirt up over his shoulder to get it off, then lets it drop onto the floor. 

“You’re upset,” Michael observes. 

“I’m not _upset_ ,” Gerry grits out. “I’m pissed off.”

“Why?”

“Some bullshit you don’t want to hear about.” He’s not about to tell Michael it’s because of Gertrude; then he’ll just get pissed off, too. Gerry leans in and kisses his jaw, pressing close to breathe him in. 

“It must have been quite something to get you like this,” says Michael. “Are you sure you—”

“Yes,” Gerry growls. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Michael brushes Gerry’s hair back. Gerry looks up at him, and his expression is odd—more so than usual, like he’s trying to puzzle Gerry out. “What?” Gerry asks.

“You should not let your emotions get the best of you,” Michael says.

Gerry laughs bitterly. “Oh, what, now you’re going to tell me what to feel, too? I said I don’t want to talk about it, Michael—”

“Why?” 

“Since when do you ask questions?” Gerry snaps, and something inside him snaps, giving way to a crackling mass of static that rises from his throat: “I said I’m not talking about it, so _don’t ask!_ ”

Michael pushes Gerry off of him, keeping one twisted hand on his chest. “Do not try to compel me,” he says fiercely; the tips of his fingers go sharp, digging into Gerry’s skin. “I do not bend to the Eye’s forcings. Control yourself, or—”

“How about you don’t be an asshole?” Gerry retorts. 

“I have done _nothing_ —”

“God, will you just stop talking?” The crackle of static beneath Gerry’s voice turns to a roar. Michael’s figure jolts and flickers like an old TV screen, and he jerks his hand back. “Don’t tell me to control myself!” Gerry hisses, the compulsion filling his lungs and spreading through his chest. He grabs the front of Michael’s sweater. The eyes on his joints glow pale green, growing brighter by the moment, but he doesn’t care. “You’re just like her, telling me what’s right, but I can be angry if I want to! You said it yourself—not everything’s an enemy. Sometimes it’s _good_ to let the angry things in. I would expect you of all people to understand!”

Michael’s breathing is audible, heavy and distorted. His eyes swap places, his features rearrange, and Gerry can See his control slipping, feel the rising ring of distortion clash with his own static. “This is not like you,” Michael says. “Gerry—”

“Yes it is!” Gerry snarls. “I can be a monster, too!”

Michael shoves him hard. Gerry lands flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He struggles to catch his breath. As soon as he can push himself up, he snaps, “What the hell, Michael?”

“This is not who you are!” Michael says furiously. “You have always been angry, but it has never consumed you. There is no reason to let the Beholding claim you now, nothing has changed—”

“ _Everything_ has changed,” Gerry says. He wants to shout and rage and lash out at Michael, but for some reason, he can’t muster the energy to raise his voice again, and it just comes out tired. “Everything’s changed,” he says again. “Because now I have you.”

“That does not make you a monster,” says Michael.

Gerry looks away. “Doesn’t it, though?” he asks quietly. 

Michael shrugs. 

“That is for you to decide,” he says.

Gerry stares at the backs of his hands. The glow of his tattoos is dimming. As he watches, it dissipates into a paler shade, and finally disappears completely. He swallows hard. 

“Gertrude doesn’t trust me to help stop the ritual anymore,” he says. “She thinks I’m… compromised, or something.”

“You are not,” says Michael.

“You think so?” Gerry asks. He doesn’t know anymore. He knows he would give his life to protect the world from the Entities, but it’s not just himself that he’s loyal to anymore. Michael hasn’t become something different since he met Gerry. He’s still a creature of the Spiral, still feeds on human lives, still embodies one of the forces Gerry would have once opposed. Still _does_ oppose. Fuck, he doesn’t know. 

Things are… complicated, now. 

Michael melts down into something resembling a sitting position. 

“Do you wish to join the Ceaseless Watcher?” he asks.

“I _wish_ things weren’t so confusing,” Gerry says wearily.

“Then I am not the right person for you to be talking to,” says Michael.

And yet, Gerry wouldn’t have anyone else. 

“I don’t want to be an avatar,” Gerry says. “I just don’t want to feel so fucking guilty for all this. You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t let you.”

“You do not have to feel guilty for it,” says Michael. 

“Yeah, except I do, though. No offense, but you… this, it goes against everything I stand for.” Gerry sighs. “And here I still am.”

“People are confusing,” Michael says simply. 

“Yeah, you got that right.” Gerry goes quiet, scrutinizing the lines of ink on his joints. 

“I could leave,” says Michael. He shifts as if he’s about to get up again, but Gerry surges forward and grabs the nearest spiraling shape that might be his hand. It feels like it is.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Just… stay here. Please.”

Michael settles back down. Gerry moves closer, leaning against him, and Michael wraps around him. Surrounded by twining curls, Gerry can feel the Eye blink and shift its gaze away, leaving the two of them alone. He also feels a slight headache coming on, but it’s a comfort. Pain is familiar ground.

He closes his eyes and relaxes into Michael, allowing his mind to rest.

***

The world is a messy place, full of blood and anger and fear. But sometimes, it’s quiet.

Gerry lays back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling. He has one arm around Michael, who’s curled up against him, idly tracing spirals into Gerry’s side. There’s nothing to fight, nothing to fear. It’s just quiet and comfortable. Gerry doesn’t remember the last time he felt this comfortable.

“You have a lot of scars,” Michael says. He brushes over the thick, raised line of white that runs a few inches up from Gerry’s hip—the mark of a Slaughter avatar’s knife a few years back. Nasty cut, that was. Not as bad as some of the burns on his arms, though. 

“Yeah. Feels like I get a new one every day,” says Gerry. He sighs and sinks his fingers into Michael’s hair, running through the curls. “It’s gonna catch up with me, one of these days.”

“What will?” Michael asks.

“All of this. This life. It’s only a matter of time, really.” The thought doesn’t scare him anymore. The fear of death is useful when it gives him enough adrenaline to get out of a tight spot, but it doesn’t keep him up at night anymore. It’s just a fact: one day, Gerry Keay will die.

“I don’t know when it’ll be, but… I know something will come and kill me before too long.” Gerry laughs, quiet and bitter. “Don’t need the Beholding to tell me that one.”

Michael slips his arm over Gerry’s hips. “I will not let that happen,” he says.

“You’re not always going to be there,” says Gerry. 

“You don’t know that.”

“People have already noticed you protecting me. They’ll be prepared to deal with it,” says Gerry. “If they really want to kill me, they’ll find a way.”

Michael’s fingers tighten around his waist. “I won’t let them,” he says.

Gerry sighs. “Michael…”

“If something is sure to kill you, then I will come and do it first,” Michael whispers. “It will hurt… less.”

Gerry pauses, his fingers going still in Michael’s hair. A while ago, that statement would’ve made him freeze; he would’ve taken it as a confirmation that Michael was only lulling him into a false sense of security, planning to strike when his guard was down. 

But nowadays, he knows what it means for the Distortion to offer mercy.

“Thanks,” Gerry whispers back, and he means it. 

Michael does not tell Gerry that he loves him. Gerry doesn’t tell him, either. But the Distortion has always dealt in lies, and lies of omission just might be his favorite kind. Gerry knows that.

So, in the silence, an uncertain truth lies hidden in plain sight—the safest place it could ever be.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) if u feel like it!


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